


shelter from the storm

by eternitywar



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nightmares, Original Character(s), Other, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sleep Deprivation, Tony Stark Has A Heart, probably gonna be super angsty sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:05:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternitywar/pseuds/eternitywar
Summary: It had all happened so quickly - Peter hadn’t even known that May had been dating, though, he supposed if he’d been paying more attention he might have picked up on it. If he’d noticed… If he’d asked… Would she have told him? These were the questions that filled the quiet of Peter’s bedroom until they threatened to overwhelm him, and he’d turn to the side, shutting his eyes, and trying not to wonder if he could’ve stopped this before it started.(May brings home a new boyfriend, and simultaneously brings a new kind of horror to the violent storm that already is Peter's life)





	1. empty home

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my first ever fic on ao3! (I promise it's gonna be better than the summary) (or at least I hope so). I've written and rewritten this story at least a dozen times and I think I'm finally happy with it! Let me just say, I'm gonna do my best not to make Aunt May seem like a bad person, because I really do love her, she's just... making some bad choices here. ANYWAY I don't wanna give away too much, so I hope you enjoy! It's gonna be an angsty mess full of protective Tony Stark so if you're into that... This is the story for you...

The sun was already beginning its lazy descent from the sky as Peter Parker finally burst his way through the doors of Midtown High, backpack slung haphazardly across his shoulder as he waved goodbye to Ned and set off in the direction of home. His skin was soaked in the golden rays of the waning autumn light as he walked, somewhat lethargically, towards his apartment. It was late, later than he’d anticipated, and with the fading sunlight came a subtle chill that nipped at Peter’s exposed arms. He supposed he couldn’t be too disgruntled - nationals were creeping up on the Midtown decathlon team like an old foe waiting in the shadows, only made stronger by the pressure of their previous years win. Everyone was on edge - even MJ had snapped at Ned after he’d tripped over a chair and strewn a pile of flash cards he’d been organising across the floor. Peter took an exasperated breath as he rounded the corner, filling his lungs with the chilly evening air and trying to ignore the steadily sinking feeling in his chest as his apartment building grew larger with each step he took towards it. He could see his bedroom window, lights off, boasting the dark, empty appearance of a dormant apartment. It always made him feel slightly apprehensive - like someone was luring him into a false sense of security - making him believe he was alone, before leaping out from behind the door with a knife or a gun or... something worse. 

 In truth, the apartments lights were off for a much more sane and logical reason. His aunt must be at work. This knowledge did nothing to loosen the vice grip on Peter’s chest, however. In fact, if anything, it tightened it. He understood that May had to work, he really did. He also understood that  _he_  was the reason May had to work so hard. She’d never say as much outright, but Peter was far from a clueless child anymore. He understood that May’s hushed phone calls, her letters stashed away, were regarding bills, and he knew they were his fault. He’d done his best to help, hell, he’d even tried to get a job at every place in the city with a “Help Wanted” poster. But, apparently, “help wanted” and “help needed” were two very different things, because each and every place had laughed him out the door before he could awkwardly stumble his way past their unanimous question: “How old even  _are_  you, kid?”

Yes, Peter understood that May had to work, but that didn’t stop the dead air of the empty apartment from pressing in around him from all sides, the silence opening up like a gaping jaw, ravenous and ready to close around him as soon as the latch on the front door  clicked shut, locking Peter inside and leaving him completely at the mercy of the vast desolation. It wasn’t that Peter was lonely - he spent all day around his friends at school, and he could always text Ned, MJ or even Tony if he needed some digital company. Peter’s problem, however, was slightly more complex. He didn’t mind the loneliness, but he desperately feared being alone. As soon as the front door closed, and Peter had no choice but to fall victim to the waiting void, he was completely and utterly consumed by it. Everything he’d ever thought, feared or experienced swirled around him in a violent crescendo, and Peter could do nothing except collapse against his bed and let it consume him. At least when May was home, she distracted him. She kept the storm away, and though Peter could still hear it swirling in the background, May provided him with the shelter he needed to escape from it. 

Of course, it wasn’t always May who sheltered him. Tony’s lab had become something of a refuge for Peter - a beacon in the night, paving his way to safety, ever since the night of his Homecoming dance. The storm had started then, as soon as Peter had crawled in his window, peeling off his homemade suit and collapsing onto his lumpy mattress. Suddenly, he found he could feel everything - the weight of the concrete forcing him downwards, jagged edges of the broken building cutting into his shoulder blades as he’d desperately fought to get free, how weak and helpless his voice had sounded, as he’d screamed himself raw for help he’d known wasn’t coming... It had all just grown from there, steadily deteriorating - physical fears mingling with mental ones, nightmares and reality becoming so closely associated that he found he couldn’t tell which was which... Every negative thing that Peter had ever thought, felt or experienced weaving themselves into a complex web and chaining him down, suspending him just like all the criminals he used to stop as Spiderman, and leaving him trapped there, choking under the weight of it all. 

 It had been Tony who’d reached out, with a phone call that cut its way through the fog of Peter’s mind, on one of those nights where he and the way his ceiling looked in the dark were becoming all too acquainted. The sound of the ringtone had been so jarring that Peter’s hand had shot immediately to the phone on his bedside table, his brain not even processing his actions as his enhanced senses took over. 

 “M-Mr. Stark?” he’d whispered, his words falling softly out into the thick air of his bedroom. It hadn’t been late, in fact, Peter had only arrived home from school an hour previously, but his blinds were drawn, and he was welcomed by nothing but darkness when he’d opened his eyes, awaiting the words of his mentor on the other end of the line. 

“Peter! How’re things?” 

Whether or not Tony had noticed the eerie quiet of his voice, Peter wasn’t sure, but the older man’s voice sounded just as it always did - clear, confident and just a little too loud. Peter never minded the volume, nor the tone of what people who didn’t know Mr. Stark may have considered “arrogance”. In fact, he normally relished in the sound of his mentor’s voice, his years of idolisation manifesting themselves in a tendency to cling to Tony’s every word, no matter how it sounded upon delivery. But on that night, Peter was thrown off a little by the sheer volume of it, ringing out around the delicate ambience of his bedroom and ricocheting off the walls, threatening to shatter everything in its path, not unlike an overexcited animal set loose in an antique store. Wincing, he’d willed himself to reply, trying to keep his voice even as he did so.  

“I’m, uh, everything’s... Everything’s fine.” Peter had croaked out, struggling to pick himself up as he stumbled over his words. “W-why, why do you ask?” 

Hoping that awkward stammering was on-brand enough for him to not worry Mr. Stark, Peter felt his heart in his throat as he’d listened to the soft white noise on the other end of the line. A pause that felt stretched out into eternity. Why was Tony calling him? He’d wondered. Just to ask how things were? Tony didn’t do that, Tony had a business to run, Avengers to take care of... And Peter wasn’t an Avenger.  

“No reason,” Tony’s short response had come after what felt like a lifetime of consideration. “It’s just, I checked the suit log and it seems like you haven’t been out in a couple weeks.”

 There was something in Tony’s tone that Peter had known was meant to insinuate something, but his exhausted mind had no interest in riddling out what it was. He’d stayed silent, hoping that a lack of response would prompt Tony into getting to the point. It worked. 

“Nothing? Huh? Kid, I swear to God, if I have to spend another sleepless night recalibrating a multi-million dollar suit so a goddamn high school student can’t hack it-“

There had been nothing accusatory in Tony’s tone, in fact, to Peter’s ears, there’d been no variation at all from his regular inflection. If he’d been more zoned in, perhaps he would’ve heard the way certain notes of his mentor’s voice wavered, or how he had to catch himself at the end of his sentence to stop worry from creeping too far into his words. Instead, Peter had been too busy reeling over the words themselves. He’d known that Tony must’ve been tracking the suit - after the Homecoming night disaster, how could he not be, but he’d never considered the implications that skipping rounds and essentially giving Spiderman a leave of absence, might have in the eyes of his mentor. He’d fumbled, eyes wide, trying desperately to work out an excuse that wouldn’t falsely incriminate him any further. 

 “I-I... We had a Spanish quiz and I’ve- I’ve just been busy and I... Mr. Stark, Tony, I swear I haven’t-“ 

 Peter had only broken his nervous tirade when the sound of Tony chuckling over the other end of the line caused confusion to overpower his anxiety. 

“I- Wh-“ Peter had started, utterly at a loss as to what the older man found so funny.

“Relax, kid, I know you didn’t hack the suit.” He’d said, with the faint traces of mirth still tinting his tone, “in fact, if you could hack that suit after all the security I put in place, I’d be far from angry, I’d give you a goddamn job.” 

Peter responded with a few nervous head nods, only remembering that Tony couldn’t see him after the man had started speaking again.

“But, it has been a while,” his mentor had continued, and this time Peter did notice the twinge of worry in his voice. “Everything okay?”

“Of course, Mr. Stark, I’m totally fine. Just busy, you know, school stuff.” 

That’s what Peter had meant to say. 

What he’d said instead, Peter still couldn’t be entirely sure of. All he knew is that twenty minutes later, he’d been in a car, driven by Tony Stark himself, on the way back to his lab. He hadn’t said much - as far as Peter knew, he hadn’t needed to. He was sure that he’d poured his heart out to Tony on the phone, sure that the panic attacks and the too-quiet apartment had come up somewhere in the mix, sure that Tony had told him to wait, and that a car would be there in ten minutes tops. Sure that he was surprised to find Tony driving that car. But everything else was hazy, even now. 

He’d spent the rest of that evening, and many evenings after it, busying himself with odd jobs in Tony’s “smaller” city lab. And so the vast, clinical space came to be one of the places that Peter most associated with the word “home”. Something about the overwhelming activity of it all filled Peter with a staggering sense of comfort - the sound of Tony’s music, filtering through the speakers either with a soft melancholy or an obnoxious racket, a bot clanking in the corner as it carried out the mundane tasks that Tony was too busy or too lazy to consider, the gentle hum of the generator that powered the building and, of course, Tony himself. Somehow, whenever Peter was in the lab, Tony was too - lingering with the excuse of repairs, or tinkering with some new design. The constant presence often set off a tiny buzz of apprehension in the back of Peter’s skull,  and his memory returned him to the surveillance software that Tony had set up in his suit, aptly named the “Baby Monitor Protocol”. But, as the two would toss light banter back and forth in an afternoon sunlit lab, all thoughts of pity or protectiveness would be discarded, and he would feel the ghost of a smile tug at his tired lips. 

It was only when he got home that the shadows would welcome him gleefully, dragging him back into the folds of the fear he was so desperately trying to run from. 

This chilly fall evening was no different, Peter thought, swallowing the lump in his throat as he jogged up the stairs of his apartment complex two at a time. He’d tried to avoid it, had even come close to spending the night at Ned’s, but just as sweet salvation had been dangled in front of him, fate had snatched away the tantalising fruit. (In this case, fate’s name was Maria, and she took the form of Ned’s aunt visiting from Miami, demanding that they spend family time together.) The darkness was waiting, shifting impatiently around the barren apartment, excitiedly anticipating Peter’s imminent arrival. He heaved a sigh as he neared his door, fishing the keys out of his pocket. He glanced at his watch, disdain pulling at his features. Maybe it wasn’t too late to call Tony... He could pretend he was out of web fluid...  

But before he could finish the thought, Peter heard something that made his blood run cold. Something that manifested everything that ever ran through his head on the dark nights. 

The low thrum of voices carrying through his apartment door.

When Peter had been bitten by the spider, the next few days had been a montage of screaming agony. As his body worked to accept the venom coursing through his system, the side effects had taken hold of him. His skin had seared, burning at what felt like just below melting point, sending shots of hot, fiery pain across his entire body. His muscles had clenched and unclenched at an alarming pace, and his bones felt as though each one had individually turned to lead. And as Peter stood, panic surging through his veins, with one hand stuck firmly to the door handle, he felt the memories of that long, tormented week beginning to nip at his ankles, as the weight of his limbs seemed to triple out of sheer trepidation. Trembling, he tuned his sensitive ears in to the conversation behind the door, trying desperately to keep his brain from churning out one worst case scenario after another. May tied up. May dead. May-

Peter’s mind came to a roaring halt as a soft giggle rang through the door. It was May’s laugh, Peter knew that for sure, but there was something...off about it. It sounded lighter, breathier, an octave higher than any sound that she would usually make. He forced his ears to listen even more closely, straining for another hint of the quiet laughter. Before Peter could question it any further, however, the answer slammed into him like a blow to the face - or rather, the ears. Another laugh - a booming, heavy sort of laugh, forced its way through the door and pierced Peter’s eardrums. Not expecting the sudden burst of noise, especially with his hearing so focussed on the living room, his overly-sensitive ears rang, and Peter clasped a hand over them, letting out a soft yelp in the process. 

Shit. 

The painstaking laugh cut itself short, and instead was replaced by the shuffling of footsteps as the owner of the voice stood up at the sound of Peter’s exclamation. Trying to focus on what was happening through the door, and not on the steadily growing crescendo of his pounding heart, Peter immediately snapped his hand back from the doorknob backed away from the door rapidly. May was in there. With a man Peter didn’t know. Laughing? And she hadn’t told Peter she was going to be home...

The realisation of what Peter was about to walk in on dragged up another deep seated insecurity, another violent whisper that the voice in the back of his head had mocked him with on many the late night. Sure, the thought of it wasn’t as brutal as the nightmares that stemmed from the Homecoming incident, or the swirling pit of “what if’s” that called to Peter every day that he came home to an empty apartment. But it plagued him all the same. His Aunt May was still relatively young, and she was beautiful. Not just hot, the way Tony so irritably joked, but beautiful. She had a wide, dazzling smile that, when she flashed it at Peter, made him feel like the whole world had realigned, and her laugh was so warm that it could heat the whole apartment in the dead of a New York winter. Uncle Ben used to say that she had a “youthful exuberance” about her, even if she was “getting on in the years”, and May would giggle lightly, causing a warm glow to light in Peter’s chest, and smack him on the arm playfully. He would laugh right back, and Peter would close his eyes and relish in the joy bundled up in their tiny Queens apartment. Their own little family, happy and laughing and good. 

But this man wasn’t his Uncle Ben, and the laughter that Peter had just heard chiming from the living room wasn’t for him. It didn’t extend to Peter Parker, orphaned son, loving nephew. It was for this man. This faceless, nameless man, who, in Peter’s mind, was the the picture of menacing - all broad shoulders and dark hair and crooked teeth. It was his laughter alone, and Peter realised, scandalised, that he felt as though he were intruding on something. The little apartment that he’d called his home for the past 9 years suddenly felt as though it were mulling him over like a bad taste in its mouth, preparing to chew him up and spit him out. He wasn’t welcome here anymore.

Peter’s hands shook as he fumbled for his phone, thinking that maybe it wasn’t too late to call Tony and escape to the lab for a few hours. He longed for the sanctitude of Tony’s jazz playlist filtering through the speakers, longed to look out the vast windows at a glimmering New York skyline and watch the sun go down, longed to make light jokes about Tony’s useless robot and be anywhere but where he was right now. But before his trembling hands could type out a cohesive message to send to his mentor, Peter heard the door creak open, and a sliver of the warm tungsten glow of their living room lights soaked his startled features. 

“Peter?” 

May’s voice was kind, gentle, but laced with a bite of confusion and... Was that guilt? What did she have to be guilty for?

“May- Sorry, I- I- I was just about to text Ned,” Peter hurried, turning on his heel as if planning to run. The sheer awkwardness of the situation seemed to have stripped all the casual ease out of Peter’s usual relationship with his aunt - the effortless bond that existed between the two of them that was so strong that it seemed like nothing could break it. Swallowing, he forced himself to meet her gaze, and when he did, he saw nothing but her deep concern for him, as her eyes bore into his chest. Letting some of the fear that was built up inside him go, Peter took a deep breath and tried his sentence again. 

“I was about to come in, but I forgot a textbook at Ned’s house so... I was gonna go and get it back from him.” 

The excuse was a lame one, but, since May didn’t (and wouldn’t) know about Peter’s enhanced senses, or anything else Spiderman for that matter, it would have to work. May’s face twisted into an expression that read that she didn’t quite buy it, but as Peter took a tentative step towards her it melted instead into a sort of tired defeat. 

“Well, Peter, uh...” 

There was definitely an edge of uneasiness to her voice, and Peter, with his ultrasonic hearing still tuned in to the living room, heard someone shifting uncomfortably on the couch, as if debating whether or not to join Peter and May at the door. May’s eyes flicked to the side for a second, filled with discomfort as she seemed to be desperately searching for the words. Peter hated seeing her like this, wished there was some way he could just tell her that he knew already, that she didn’t have to go through the trouble of trying to explain it. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” May said finally, pressing two fingers against the bridge of her nose and pinching slightly, the way Peter knew she attempted to fend off a tension headache. 

As if May’s words had been a cue of some kind, the source of the shuffling in the living room appeared behind her. Peter couldn’t help but feel his eyes widen as a large figure filled his vision. Of course, his paranoid manifestation of the man’s appearance was unsurprisingly inaccurate, but Peter felt intimidation rising in his chest all the same. He was tall, almost a foot taller than Peter himself, but he was lean, not broad, and his hair was a erring on the lighter side of blonde, not dark, as Peter’s image had been. A slight hitch in his gait as he approached them seemed to be the only thing that contrasted his otherwise perfect appearance. Peter took him in, mind still whirring at a hundred miles a minute in an attempt to process the scene in front of him. The man’s hair was slicked back, and Peter noted that it had a weird sheen about it when it hit the light. Too much hair gel, he thought. He’d made that mistake, too, when he was in 8th grade. It definitely wasn’t a good look on a full grown man. There was also a whiff of cologne in the air that, under any other circumstances, would’ve made Peter wrinkle his nose in disgust, but he kept his face still, eyes planted on the man who stood so casually in his living room. He could feel all of his turbulent emotions reawakening inside of him, having scuttled as soon as May had opened the front door. Again, he battled the sudden sense of loss, the idea of his own inadequacy, the sinking feeling of no longer belonging...

The air was growing heavy now, dragged down by the weight of unspoken words - Peter’s, May’s and the man’s. The silence rang frighteningly loud in Peter’s ears, and he found himself begging one of the two people before him to just say something. Anything. 

“Peter,” his aunt said finally, cutting through the air after what feels like an eternity, “this is Sam. We’ve... Uh... Well we’ve sort of been seeing eachother recently.”

It wasn’t as if this was a shock to Peter, but something about hearing it in May’s words had a deeper effect on him. It felt more solid, more real, more... Final. His eyes flicked over the man next to May again as his insecurities roared wildly in his chest, picking up things that he hadn’t on first glance. He had all the air of a well-groomed, put together businessman, with a suit that seemed perfectly tailored, shoes that glinted and shone when the light hit them, perfectly manicured fingernails and a shark-like grin that pulled at his face in just the right way. He radiated charm, confidence and poise in a way that seemed to only raise the uneasiness rising in Peter’s chest. But, as Peter narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down, gaze unforgiving, the man’s facade seemed to flicker and fade like a dissipating hologram. Perhaps he hadn’t been looking hard enough, or perhaps his eyes were a little more biased this time around, but Peter came to land on every little flaw, every little characteristic that grew his distaste for the man in his living room. His “perfectly manicured” fingernails were longer than the average person on closer inspection, and Peter noticed with antipathy that there was a buildup of scum under the nail of his left index finger. His pants, though apparently perfectly tailored, bunched a little at his ankles, though he had made some attempt to roll them up. His “shark-like” grin became somewhat more aptly named, as Peter noticed that some of his teeth were strangely pointed on the ends. 

For the most part, these perceived flaws left Peter with a grim sense of satisfaction, as though he had broken down his projected image of perfection and left Sam... Weakened, somehow. Just as this fact was beginning to fill Peter with new surges of confidence, he was struck with the most horrifying flaw of all. His eyes... Something about his eyes gave Peter the childish desire to run and hide, like the time he’d accidentally clicked on the trailer for a horror movie on YouTube when he was 7. Black pupils bled out into nearly identically shadowed brown irises, and they were framed by yellow, discoloured skin and a few deep wrinkles. It reminded Peter of how he looked the morning after a particularly long patrol, or one of those nights where his bedroom ceiling was like a portal that drew his gaze, and he spent until the blinking hours of the morning staring...and thinking....

The man - Sam - cleared his throat, and Peter felt himself snap violently back into the present moment, as silence still sat like a deadweight in the air around them. 

Shit. Peter thought. How long had he been standing there in his descent of despair? How long had Sam been staring at him like that? And why did he look so...angry?  

Now, the eyes bore into him, and Peter could swear he felt where their gaze pierced him. Trying not to squirm, he flicked his own eyes up to meet May’s, forcing as much enthusiasm into them as humanly possible, and mustered out a response. 

“Dating? May that’s... Thats amazing! Why didn’t you tell me, I-“ Peter launched into an excited burst of chatter, commenting on how he’d “had no idea!” and “all those nights where I thought you were out for dinner with Mrs Harris!” and “I’m so happy for you!”.  

How false his response seemed was relative to how much time it had taken him to snap into focus after May’s reveal, and that was something Peter had no way of figuring out, so instead, he threw as much fervour into his voice as possible and hoped for the best. Whether his aunt actually believed him, or she was just so desperate for a positive reaction that she was willing to overlook Peter’s initial uneasiness, he wasn’t sure, but as he finished her face cracked into a massive and genuine smile - the type that would always make Peter’s heart soften. 

“Oh, Peter! You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to- I mean, I didn’t wanna rush things but this is just so good! My favourite boys, finally together in the same room!”

She seemed so happy, so genuinely ecstatic about the situation that Peter tried his best to smile under the gaze of Sam, which hadn’t left him since he’d entered the living room.  

As if spurred by Peter’s sudden mental acknowledgement of his uncomfortable presence, Sam took a sudden step towards him, and it took everything in his power not to instinctively hop backwards. Because he wanted to, he really wanted to. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Peter,” he said, extending a hand. Peter took it timidly. His skin was as clammy as his presence in the room, and the contact made Peter just as uncomfortable. He shook lightly, pulling his hand away the second he believed it wouldn’t be considered rude. Sam flashed him a grin, smiling with what seemed like every one of his teeth. 

“Well, don’t just stand there on the doorstep!” he exclaimed, letting out a hearty chuckle similar to the one that Peter had been subjected to only a few minutes earlier. Had that really been a couple minutes ago? 

The night pressed on, peppered with lapsing uncomfortable silences (mostly on Peter’s part) and overly enthusiastic laughter (mostly on May’s part). Sam sat between the two of them with a small smile on his face, but Peter noticed that it never reached his eyes. Even when he was laughing that ear-splitting laugh at something May said, his eyes stayed, deep black and dangerous. Peter’s fingers itched to reach for his phone, to text Ned or Tony in search of some non-hostile contact. Sam wasn’t unfriendly, but there was something about him that made Peter’s hairs stand on end, like something deep in his gut was warning him to turn around and sprint in the other direction. It transcended Peter’s regular brand of awkwardness and apprehension around strangers, feeling more urgent and instinctual than anything else. Peter hated it, the way his stomach churned as Sam leaned over him to get to a container of rice that was just slightly out of reach. The way Sam raised his eyebrows dismissively at Peter’s mention of decathlon practice, and the way he interrupted Peter’s story about Ned dropping the flash cards to ask if he played any sports. He hated every second. But May was smiling. May was laughing. May was happy. So he needed to be too, right?

By the time he was finally able to crawl into bed, Peter’s brain was screaming under the weight of all the laboured conversation, begging for the sweet reprieve of a good nights sleep. Peter was compelled to oblige, sighing at the wardrobe where he knew his Spiderman suit was stashed. 

Just one more night off.  

But as he settled in to sleep, fixing his eyes on the dark ceiling above him, Peter felt it, like the embrace of a familiar friend. The doubt, the worry, the endless beating of “what if, what if, what if.” He screwed up his eyes, willing away the thoughts, desperate to just go to goddamned sleep. As soon as his eyelids slammed his world into darkness, however, his ceiling was replaced with flashes of what awaited him as he slept. Like the previews to a show, his nightmares flitted threateningly across his mind’s eye. Dark eyes and anger and voices behind doors. Angry men with slicked back hair chasing him with footballs while Aunt May laughed her soft, chiming laugh from the sidelines. Resigning himself to his fate, Peter forced open his tired eyes, training them on a familiar stain on his bedroom wall, and found himself wishing, for the first time ever, that he had really come home to an empty apartment, just like always. 


	2. paint job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the shadows in his bedroom, who were slowly becoming old acquaintances, would whisper sweetly in his ear, urging Peter to tell them all his worries, to repeat them again, and again, and again. To mutter his fears into the darkness until they themselves became the darkness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! Thank you all so so much for your comments on the first chapter, the reception of this story was honestly more than anything I could've ever hoped for and it just makes me all the more excited to write this for you guys! A couple things - some people were asking me if I plan to have an update schedule, and the answer is, I'm not going to have a strict schedule that I keep to, but I am going to make sure I have chapters out within 4 or 5 days of each other so I don't keep you guys waiting too long!! 
> 
> And another small note that I forgot to mention, although this story is technically post-Spiderman Homecoming, Aunt May doesn't know that Peter is Spiderman. I just thought that particular fact might complicate the plot a little more, so I left it out. Sorry about that!!! Anyway, I churned this chapter out pretty fast, and I'm not sure how I feel about it, but I hope you enjoy it! Happy reading.

The wind lashed violently at Peter’s limbs as he worked desperately to stay on course, swinging from building to building against the strong breeze that threatened to blow him straight through the windows of the New York skyscrapers he so deeply relied on. Normally, he would relish in the challenge, riding the current of the wind and letting it sweep him across the city, opening his arms and letting the web-wings Tony had built in catch, so he was gliding high above the bustling metropolis that pulsed beneath him. It was exhilarating, probably the closest Peter would come to experiencing actual flight, and he loved every second of it. Normally, the report of high winds in New York City would cause Peter’s heart to leap out of his chest, and he would do anything, anything to be suited up and out the door as quickly as possible.

Normally. 

Today, Peter was on his way home. His rounds, just as they’d been every other day for the past week, or the past month, or every day since Adrian Toomes... had taken a toll on him. Before Homecoming night, when Peter would come home from rounds to a warm bed and an embrace of much needed sleep, it was exponentially easier for him to enjoy them while they were happening. He’d sit on a fire escape as the sun set and watch the world settle in for the night, with a warm glow of tired satisfaction brewing in his chest, that even Happy’s inevitable voicemail couldn’t extinguish. Then he’d swing lazily home, feeling the fading sun on his back, and curl up in bed surrounded by memories of smiling old ladies and relieved tourists. Spiderman was making a difference. Peter was making a difference. 

It wasn’t until after Adrian Toomes, after the plane crash, after everything, that Peter’s rounds started to feel like more of a hindrance than a help. Peter had sat on top of the Coney Island Cyclone, feet dangling in just the same way as they did when he sat atop the fire escapes in Queens, and he’d see  nothing but devestation. He’d watched people flee like flocking ants as the beach blazed and charred, flames licking at the ash filled air as though desperate to reach where Peter sat. Invincible. Watching his world go up in smoke. May and Ben had taken him to Coney Island a couple times as a kid - once he’d eaten way too much cotton candy, and needed to go home early. May had rubbed his back on the car ride home, and whispered soothingly that they’d come back another day. The second time, he mustered the courage to get on the ferris wheel with his Uncle Ben, only to burst into a frenzy of frightened and inconsolable tears as soon as he realised how high up he was. Ironically, Peter had hated heights. Ben had clasped his shoulder, willed him to take in the sights for what they were - terrifyingly magnificent. Sure, he’d said, the height was scary. But why did that mean they couldn’t also be great? 

Peter thought about that a lot. Whenever he’d swung too high, and felt his knees wobbling as the tiny grid of the city blinked beneath him, he’d remember his uncle’s words, and find his balance returning. And now, the park was closed - with some vendors refusing to return, and others simply unable to, due to damages sustained after the plane crash. The ferris wheel was so structurally damaged that it had to be removed, and Coney Island was slowly becoming a ghost town, fading silently away into the grip of the past, taking with it the last physical representations of Peter’s memories. Everything about Homecoming night had been personal to Peter. Adrian Toomes has been personal. Coney Island had been personal. Hell, even the attack on his mentor’s plane had been personal. And as he felt the ash filled air soak the lining of his lungs, Peter was struck with a realisation. The very realisation that now plagued him incessantly, every time the mask slipped over his eyes. The very realisation that led to his two week hiatus as Spiderman in the beginning of September. 

As he’d cast his watery eyes out across the destruction he’d caused, and slammed his head back against the cool metal behind him, Peter realised that this was his home. The smoking ruins of yet another chunk of New York City, just like Mr. Delmar’s shop, played home to some of Peter’s most coveted memories. Memories he only allowed to creep out of the cracks in his floorboards on quiet nights. And here he was, tearing them down, one by one. They were burning, buffeting Peter with waves of putrid smoke and his eyes were leaking tears from the sting of it, but he was holding the match, and suddenly he couldn’t handle it any more. He couldn’t watch his world crumble by his hand. 

It was significantly harder to go out as Spiderman after that. Every time the suit would cling to his body, Peter felt it like a vice around his chest. He’d tried to be careful, spent hours considering every possible outcome for his actions, planning for every possible contingency. His rounds, as a result, were a whirlwind plagued by paranoia, tense muscles and twitchy fingers. Peter would find himself fumbling with his web shooters more often and narrowly missed crashing into buildings on several occasions, because he’d been so busy tuning in to what might have been behind him, that he hadn’t noticed the brick rushing towards him from the front. It was hell, and Peter would come back each night with his limbs screaming and his chest heavy with the knowledge that he could’ve done more, should’ve done more... And the shadows in his bedroom, who were slowly becoming old acquaintances, would whisper sweetly in his ear, urging Peter to tell them all his worries, to repeat them again, and again, and again. To mutter his fears into the darkness until they themselves became the darkness. 

He’d tried, he really had. For months, Spiderman had protected the streets, with false mirth in his voice and a forced spring in his step. But soon enough, even his witty one-liners tasted like acid leaving his lips. His rounds became shorter, and the effect they had on him became greater. And that was how, for two long weeks at the beginning of September, Spiderman disappeared from the New York streets. With his absence came an ache of guilt and loss, mingling with the other demons that already flocked to Peter’s bedside when the sun went down. They were angry shadows, berating him for abandoning the city he’d sworn to protect, sneering that he was giving up the one thing that made his pitiful existence mean something. And Peter would clutch at his empty chest, desperate to keep it from splitting open, but he could never do it. No matter how hard he tried, every night, Peter would feel the force of his anguish rip his chest apart, leaving him vulnerable, at the whim of every negative emotion it was possible for one human to feel...

And then Tony had called, and it was like he’d cracked open the blinds in the pitch black room of Peter’s mind. It was just a sliver of light - his afternoons in the lab with Tony, but it had been enough. Enough to remind him that there was a world outside, a world with sunlight and rock music played on vinyl and Tony laughing at Peter as he covered himself in web fluid for the third time in an evening. Sure, it wasn’t much, but it was enough. 

Soon, Spiderman had been back on the streets, with more suit modifications and web combinations than he would ever need, and he was laughing again. Slowly, the sun was beginning to rise on Peter Parker’s life. Sure, he still had the empty apartment, and the swift embrace of the swirling storm of his emotions was a nightly occurrence, but he was getting better. Or at least, he had been. 

Today, however, as the wind buffeted him with a cold, unrelenting force, Peter was late. He could see Queens, hurtling towards him as he propelled himself through the air, trying to ignore the black hole opening in the pit of his stomach, threatening to swallow him whole from the inside out. His heart felt uncomfortably swollen in his chest as Karen’s artificial voice chimed in his ear. 

_“Peter, it’s now 6:45pm, you asked me to alert you if-_ “ 

“Yeah, yeah! I know!” Peter snapped, his voice coming out harsher than he’d meant it to, but his mind was already ringing with the knowledge of what was waiting for him, and having Karen say it out loud... Peter swallowed, screwing up his eyes and shaking his head to fend of the impending rush of emotions. He just had to get home.

He reached his apartment building, feeling all of his energy dimming, any remaining vigour left from his rounds waning like a smouldering fire. Dipping into a familiar alley, Peter slammed a hand to the sensor on his chest that released the suit, possibly a little more forcefully than he’d needed to, feeling the fabric loosen and slide off his body. The release, though relieving the pressure of spandex against his limbs, somehow only wound him tighter, as he changed rapidly back into the clothes he’d been wearing at school and made his way into the building. 

The walls of the buildings hallways had recently been repainted, and the pristine, unblemished interior seemed to taunt Peter as he walked. He and May had lived in this apartment for just over 10 years, and every day, Peter had come home to the same ochre hallways, and May would make the same comment about how hideously the colour clashed with the dark green carpet, and Ben would laugh and say that only she would notice something like that, and they would argue that the carpet was actually navy, and that Ben didn’t think it clashed at all. When he was 11, Peter had taken up skateboarding, and as a result, had left many a dent and scrape along the mustard-coloured walls. And every day after that, he would walk past them on his way home and a smile would fall upon his face, as he remembered how hilariously bad he’d been at trying to pretend it wasn’t him...

Sam liked the new walls. 

The first time he’d come over after they’d been painted, Peter was sure that tears were going to spring in the man’s eyes, as he ranted and raved about how the place was finally starting to adopt some “class”. His enthusiasm made Peter’s stomach turn, slinking away to mourn the yellow walls stained with memories in the privacy of his own bedroom, trying to block out May’s laugh soaking over Sam’s words, draping over his very presence in the living room Peter had once considered to be his own. 

The naked walls felt like a physical representation of what Peter had been observing since that first night, a month ago, when Sam had first breached the barrier of their apartment. It felt as though every time he came over (which seemed to be happening more and more frequently, now that everything was out in the open), Sam would leave with another piece of Peter balled up in his first. It had started small, with a muttered comments about different aspects of Peter’s childhood - skateboarding, chess-playing... Even Mr. Delmar’s sandwich shop had come up in conversation. Sam was the type of man who flung opinions like fastballs, and each one was weighed down by the burden of his negativity. Peter felt each one as if it struck him in the face, and by the time he left for the night, Sam would be responsible for the shards of broken memories scattered at Peter’s feet. Things had reached their lowest last week, at the newly scheduled Thursday night “family” dinner, when Sam’s smooth voice began to crow about the state of public schools in Queens. Particularly - Peter’s old school. Peter had shrunk further down in his seat, pushing his roast beef around his plate, and said nothing. May, he noticed, also neglected to mention that Peter had spent the majority of his childhood inside those “rusty gates”, looking up to those “second rate teachers”. Neither he or his aunt seemed to want to be the one to tell Sam that Peter had once been one of those “no-good kids headed for nothing but trouble.” 

Sighing, Peter pulled his eyes away from the too-clean walls and willed himself to push open the door to his apartment, trying hard not to dwell too heavily on the thought of what memories he might have to grieve over tonight, as he watched Sam pull them away into the dark. 

“Peter! Oh, thank goodness, I was starting to-“

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry May,” Peter’s fumbled apology dropped from his lips so fast that he cut his aunt off mid-sentence, as though he were unable to keep the words in any longer. He’d been repeating them over and over, as soon as he’d noticed the time and started his desperate rush home. He caught sight of Sam, lingering just in the shadows of the kitchen, shrouding half of his face in darkness. The ghost of a smile haunted Peter’s lips as he recalled a conversation he’d had with Ned a few days previously. 

_“I’m telling you, dude,_ ” he’d laughed, mouth full of cafeteria pizza, _“it’s like, the whole room can be perfectly lit, but he still manages to look like he’s under that one flickering bulb in a haunted hospital.”_  

The comment had sent Ned into peals of enthusiastic laughter, and filled Peter with the grim new sense of satisfaction that he got every time he made a comment at Sam’s expense. Now, however, as Sam glowered at him from the sink, that satisfaction seemed to curdle in his stomach, making way for the guilt that normally washed over him later at night, while he wished, desperately, that he could just like May’s boyfriend. 

“I...” Peter began, his excuse having been thrown off by the full weight of Sam’s menacing stare. 

“It’s okay, Peter, you don’t have to-“ May started, her regular, easy-going tone feeling like music to Peter’s ears. 

“No, May, I’d actually really like to hear this,” Sam grunted, setting down the bread knife he’d been cleaning and taking a step towards where Peter stood. As he drew closer into the light, Peter could see, more clearly, the passive anger sitting just below the surface of his cold, merciless-looking eyes. He gulped, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and opened his mouth to continue, his throat suddenly feeling unbearably dry. Goddamnit, why did Sam have this effect on him? Peter had faced down bank robbers and war criminals (granted, said “war criminal” was Captain America, one of Peter’s all-time childhood heroes), and yet, he couldn’t stand in his own goddamned apartment and choke out one sentence to his aunt’s boyfriend? Yeah, some superhero he was. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he began, purposefully looking at his aunt, rather than at Sam, though the man’s figure lingered out of the corner of Peter’s eye. “It’s just, since we qualified for Nationals and- and they’re only a month away... MJ’s working the team super hard...” 

“The team?” Sam cut in, voice sharp. Peter felt his nostrils flare, and fought to keep his face passive as he replied. 

“My academic decathlon team,” he started to explain, gritting his teeth. He’d mentioned the team almost every night since he and Sam first met, and yet the man still seemed to have an aversion to acknowledging it. Every time he did it, Peter felt his skin crawl. It was as if Sam was going to keep asking, until Peter said that he’d been out with the football team or something. A small smile flirted across Sam’s face, and Peter felt his stomach twist uncomfortably as he eyed the - was that joy? satisfaction? in Sam’s eyes. 

“Oh, right,” the older man breathed, “you’ve mentioned them before... Still, I think it’s a little late to be walking home, don’t you May?” 

“What? Oh- yeah, yeah, I guess so-“ May said quickly, moving over to where Sam stood next to the sink. Peter could’ve screamed in frustration, as he watched his aunt curl an arm around Sam’s waist, directing him back to the dishes. He could tell that May hated Sam’s prodding into parenting territory... She had to, right? Surely she could see how uncomfortable it made Peter? He watched as May picked up a tea towel, and Sam started to immerse the night’s dishes in hot, soapy water once more. Two plates. Two knives. Two forks. A third plate still sat empty on the bench, and Peter, suddenly feeling a complete lack of appetite, made a mental note to stow it back in the cupboard once the coast was clear. He felt something heavy settle on his shoulders as he watched his aunt, as if he was watching her through a movie screen. As if all the colour was slowly leaking out of the apartment, leaving only the two of them saturated. Sam was looking at May with a broad grin on his face, and she was laughing shrilly as she wiped at her nose, trying to clear the soap bubbles he’d just smeared across it. It was a gleaming moment, full of blissful domesticity, a scene from a daytime soap opera on rerun, a golden days montage. Slumping his shoulders, Peter made for his room, clicking the door shut on the lively, vibrant scene and falling into the lifeless depths of his despair. Two plates, two knives, two forks. Two people in love. 

No room for one nephew. 

He sat awake, nestled amongst the gloom, for several hours, long after the echo of exuberant voices had sunk into the floor. Sam was staying the night again, Peter gathered, as the chime of playfulness drifted down the hall towards May’s bedroom. He often did, and Peter always dreaded the fact that he’d wake the next day to a house still infected by his presence. He shuddered, rolling over, and basking in the intense silence of the apartment. There was something about the type of silence that only comes after 2am, Peter thought, trying desperately to stave off the images of Sam’s glinting black eyes. It sat heavy in the air, like that moment in a horror movie where all your hairs stand on end, and you’re thinking don’t go through that door, don’t go, don’t go. It was the creaks and stutters of floorboards and rafters - the chatter of apartment building tenants, passing like ships in the delicate hours of the morning. At this hour, the bones of Peter’s bedroom seemed particularly bare, when lit with the early morning glow of street lamps - and the result was rather haunting. It was the silence, he thought. The way it dripped down around him, like molasses suspended in the air, causing a thick sheen through which he tried to view the place he called his own. The flicker of the little green “2” on his digital clock signified a shift in the very nature of his surroundings, and suddenly he was not at home. The light streaming through his window bathed a foreign room in a milky glow, but he was in a state of complete alteration. This was not his reality. 

It was during this time, this very vulnerable state of suspension, in which Peter felt the most raw, that he’d heard it. The heavy, shifting footsteps, punctuated by an obvious and defining limp, on the hardwood floor, moving towards Peter’s bedroom... Sam. 

Peter bristled, feeling a million questions rushing through his head, all at once. He snatched at the clock beside his bed, turning it towards him and bathing his face in an artificial glow. _2:13am_. And yet Sam was definitely coming, limping his way along the hallway, with nowhere else to go except...

Peter’s door cracked open, and then swung, revealing the menacing figure that he could already see in his mind’s eye. Sam was dressed in a plain grey t-shirt that hugged his lean figure and a pair of black sweatpants. Even dressed so vulnerably, the sight of him, especially as an intruder upon Peter’s most exposed hour, made the younger boy’s stomach knot. 

Squinting his eyes against the light of the hallway, Peter managed to choke out a confused exclamation, before Sam was across the room, clasping one firm and clammy hand over Peter’s nose and mouth. Eyes wide, Peter tried to struggle, but his strength, his speed, his senses... Every one of his enhanced abilities, seemed overcome by his sheer hysteria. He wriggled, pushed at the man’s hand, desperate to get free, but Sam simply pinned his body to the bed with his free hand, seeming completely unperturbed. Right now, Peter wasn’t super, Peter wasn’t Spiderman. Peter was nothing more than the powerless 15 year old he constantly felt like inside. 

“I’m doing this, because I want you to listen to me, and I don’t want to hear the bullshit excuses you try to feed your aunt,” Sam started, in a voice that was so eerily calm it made Peter’s skin crawl. His even tone sounded like it was suited for an important business call, rather than the dark embrace of Peter’s bedroom, with a hand clasped over the teenager’s mouth, and even through his fingers, Peter could detect the stench of alcohol on the man’s breath. 

“Listen,” he demanded, as Peter continued to grunt against his skin, “I’ve got a good thing going here with your aunt... At least, I thought it was a good thing, until you came bursting in... Quite literally...”

He paused, as if allowing Peter time to react. Peter didn’t, to his credit, but Sam ploughed on. 

“So I hope you’re paying close attention when I say... If I ask you to be home at a certain time.  _You’ll fucking be there._  If I tell you to do something. _You’ll fucking do it._ My dad didn’t take any shit from me, and I’m sure as hell not about to take any shit from you, you hear me?”

Again, Peter felt as though he were being pressed for a response, but all he could muster was a half-hearted grunt into the older man’s calloused palm. He felt as though every ounce of energy had left him, replaced only by an overwhelming fear, and an intense burning hatred for the man towering above him. 

“Don’t forget who the fucking adult is here, Peter.” Sam continued, “your aunt chose to be with me. She got stuck with you... And she can get unstuck just as quickly. So I’d be very attentive to my rules, if I were you.” 

A tear seared its way down Peter’s cheek, blistering the already red skin and coming to rest just above Sam’s wrist. The older man looked at it in disgust, before snatching his hand away with a look of contempt. 

“A fucking  _baby_...” He muttered, apparently to himself. “Up all night crying because he didn’t get his own way.”

He cast one more look of disdain in Peter’s direction, where he sat, cowering, against his wall, before turning and lumbering out the way he came, his limp clearly more pronounced in his current state of intoxication. Peter held his breath as he listened to him shuffle the length of the hallway, and didn’t release it until he heard the door to May’s bedroom click shut. As soon as the silence enveloped him once more, Peter let his face fall, and waited for his violent sobs to rock him to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another angsty, sad Peter ending! Sorry, I know I'm repetitive and depressing, but I promise, I've got a direction this story's gonna go in and it's... Pretty exciting... (This is also the part where I apologise for the COMPLETE lack of Tony in this chapter - it's all gonna kick off after this, and I'm already halfway through writing the third chapter, but I just wanted to focus on Peter's current situation for this one so you guys have a deeper understanding of what's going on once the plot starts picking up a little more)
> 
> (Also yes, I did steal that "flickering light" joke from drag race... I'm not claiming it I just think it's hilarious and fit Sam's character perfectly)
> 
> Sorry this one was a little shorter, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! As always, please please PLEASE leave a comment with your thoughts/feelings !!! Your support and opinions mean the world to me !!! And if you wanna send me asks or anything, you can hit me up at uxorcide.tumblr.com !!


	3. lemon dish soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude, I heard you took a brutal hit last night!”
> 
> Ned’s enthusiastic whisper shot across the lunch table so fast that Peter barely even had time to process it, before it was filling every empty space in his chest with tight, merciless fear. He couldn’t know... 
> 
> How could he know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm back! First of all, thank you so much for all your wonderful kudos/comments and words of support, they've really been keeping me going, and it warms my heart to know that you're enjoying the story! Second of all, I want to apologise for how long this chapter took to get up - I know I said I wanted to upload once every three or four days, but I've had exams and a couple other stressful things going on, so this one just took a little longer to get out! But that's all over now, so hopefully I can try and get chapters out a little more frequently from here on out! 
> 
> ANYWAY, without further ado, here's the chapter! I really hope you guys enjoy it, it's a bit of a longer one so bear with me! (And don't forget to leave me a comment if you enjoyed it, I absolutely love to hear your thoughts)

The next day dawned just like any other, with a cold autumn dawn seeping grey light through Peter’s window, aiding him gently from his fitful sleep. He rolled over in his bed, fighting back a shudder, and tried not to focus too hard on the green glow of the clock that seemed to flash him so vividly back to the events of the night before. After the weight of the silence that Sam’s threats had left in their wake had become too much for Peter to bear, he’d finally allowed himself to fall into the waiting oblivion, and immediately found himself plagued by images of dark trapdoors and long, gnarled hands threatening to choke him as he slept. Sam’s voice had echoed, disembodied, growing exponentially louder as Peter tried to drown the threatening snarls with his own screams. He’d cried for his aunt, his uncle, for his old family. He’d even cried for Tony. 

But nobody had come, and Peter had felt himself sinking lower into the pits of his nightmares, completely and unmistakably alone. 

With his eyes closed against the determined light of the morning, Peter could still feel like force of Sam’s hand clamped over his mouth and nose, could still smell the remnants of lemon dish soap in the deep grooves of his palm as he growled out his menacing monologue. Peter swallowed as he swung his legs over the bed, focussing on the feeling of the cool hardwood floor against the balls of his feet, and, clenching his hands into fists, steeled himself to move. One foot at a time. Into the kitchen. How hard could it be?

He heard Sam before he saw him, a hearty chuckle echoed around the walls of the apartment, ricocheting off each one and aiming directly for Peter, who was dejectedly prepared for the blow. He’d known all too well that Sam had spent the night last night. Knew that he’d be waiting in the normally safe confines of Peter’s kitchen the next morning. Yet somehow, the shield that Peter had been trying to build around his mind and heart disintegrated in the face of that one, hollow sound. Sam’s laugh - an ugly, gasping noise that was half chuckle and half choke, infiltrated Peter’s brain, bouncing off his skull and filling his head with a deafening roar, as bile burned his dry throat. Breathing deeply, Peter’s stare bore holes in the top of his feet, as he tried with all his might to will them to move. 

_“Take a step,_ ” he begged, trying desperately to get his voice heard over the terrified pounding in his brain. He attempted to reason with himself... He was being ridiculous. He was Spiderman. He’d dodged bullets, plummeted into a freezing cold lake, survived a plane crash... Hell, he’d even singlehandedly fought off a group of thugs trying to strong-arm their way into a department store not twenty four hours ago. But he couldn’t walk five feet into his own damn kitchen. Real heroic. 

Eventually, Peter managed to burst through the thick fog of his mind, and, barking orders like a frenzied drill sergeant, forced his disobedient limbs to move. Somewhat robotically, he made his way into the kitchen, with fear reaching a gnarled hand behind his head and keeping it fixed at a downwards angle, urging him to do anything, anything except look up. He mumbled a hello to his aunt, praying that his raw throat wouldn’t betray him in the process, and set about fixing himself a bowl of cereal, still looking determinedly downwards. 

“Morning, Pete.”

The greeting rang out so clearly, so obnoxiously, that Peter acted as if it had struck him in the face. Reeling backwards, he felt his ears ringing as Sam’s words thrummed in his brain, joining those much darker ones that already resided there from the night before. They clashed insufferably, Sam’s threats, from the dim of Peter’s room, screaming at the sudden intrusion of light, the offensively bright and chiming happiness in his tone. The shock caused his head to snap up, bringing an ache in the back of his neck that threatened to linger. 

“Woah, woah, woah buddy,” Sam chuckled, glancing up at Peter’s trembling form, “what’s got you so twitchy?” 

His voice was laced with a twisted amusement that innocent enough to May’s ears, but may as well have been a piercing shriek to Peter’s. Sam raised his eyes, locking on to Peter as he fixed him with a self-satisfied grin, eyes flashing with barely concealed arrogance. A deep red anger joined the already abundant fear swirling in Peter’s chest, lashing against the walls of his rib cage and leaving hot, angry scorch marks on his bones. He swallowed against the pain of it, desperate to keep himself from saying something that could antagonise Sam in any way. It had been Peter’s fault, after all. He’d been late... He just had to make sure he wasn’t late anymore...

May chuckled quietly at Sam’s comment, shaking her head in the way she’d used to whenever she felt an upsurge of affection for Peter or Ben. Peter felt his heart fall as he watched his aunt’s hand find Sam’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. It made Peter sick, sick to know that Sam made his aunt so happy, that he was trying to get in the way of that. May was smiling again, laughing more often, and the curtains to their tiny apartment seemed to always be open. Love suited his aunt, Peter thought, as he surveyed her across the kitchen bench, as she poured over an article in Sam’s newspaper with an avid and sparkling interest. Her hair was down, and draped loosely and effortlessly over her shoulders, straight and shiny and perfectly brushed. Her glasses, normally so covered in smudges that they did more harm than good for her vision, were crystal clear, and through them Peter could see the twinkle in her brown eyes. She was happy. In a way she’d never been with Peter. And yet he felt sick to his stomach at the mere sight of Sam. Peter’s own selfishness made his stomach turn uncomfortably, as he fought against the turmoil in his brain, telling himself that he’d never even given Sam a chance, that all he’d done was act up and make him angry...

Suddenly, a loud shattering noise ripped Peter violently from his thoughts. Eyes wide and blood pounding in his ears, Peter’s mind flew immediately to forcing his limbs to stay rooted to the ground, manually overriding his instinct to leap an unnaturally high foot in the air in front of his unsuspecting aunt and... Sam. Panic surged through his features as he surveyed his surroundings through the haze of buzzing adrenaline in his system. Shards of white ceramic lay unceremonious at his feet, tainted only by the spots of crimson blood trickling slowly from Peter’s own palm. Had he dropped the bowl? Smashed it? Why would he-

And then the scent hit him. The scent that had so clearly superseded Peter’s default autopilot mode, that so often took over when he was overcome with an influx of thoughts...

Lemon dish soap. 

The smell of it washed over him, forcing its way into his nose, his eyes, his throat. His face stung from the force of it, and all of a sudden he could feel a calloused hand clamped around his mouth once more...

“Peter? Peter!” 

It was his aunt’s voice, filled with a soothing concern, that dragged Peter back to reality. She was standing in the kitchen now, perched next to him at an awkward angle, in an attempt to shield her bare feet from the unforgiving shards of porcelain littering the tile. Peter’s snap back to the present moment came with an instant upheaval of guilt and shame, and he instantly lunged for where he knew they kept the dustpan, frantic to mend his mistake, as he felt Sam’s stare searing into the back of his skull. Somewhere, in the midst of his nervous mania, Peter wondered how much of his skeleton Sam would leave burn marks on - the fear in his ribs, the gaze on his skull... He wondered how much of himself would be left unmarked, once his bones were all that remained. It was an unpleasant thought, the idea of Sam’s impact running so deep that it could brand Peter long into the next life, but it was one that jammed itself firmly in his mind as his fingers fumbled around the handle of the small broom, shaking as he rushed towards the broken mess he’d created...

And then, a gentle hand on his shoulder. A light squeeze. And a breath of fresh air. Aunt May’s vanilla scented perfume soaked over the burning aroma of lemon that was still desperately trying to infiltrate Peter’s body in any way it could. Suddenly, all he could smell was baking cookies on Sunday afternoons, lying his head on May’s lap in the back of Ben’s car, holding her hand on the way to the park... 

Peter raised his eyes to meet his aunt’s wide, concerned ones. Her gaze was gentle - questioning, perhaps even worried, but soft and welcoming all the same. Peter mustered as much apology into his own eyes as he could, and was met with a warm understanding, and a promise of a later conversation. This was the woman he was trying to destroy - the woman who’s relationship he would rip away, for the sake of his own, worthless comfort. He flicked his eyes from his aunt to Sam, who was still sitting perched at the kitchen bench, hanging back with a mildly curious air about him. He looked softer, more human than he had moments before. Cursing himself and his overzealous imagination, Peter fought to refresh his biased ideas about his aunt’s partner. He, Peter, had been later. He, Peter, had deserved to be reprimanded, but he’d still acted like the victim. Still acted like he’d been in the right. But that simply couldn’t be the case, not when this man had earned the love of such a radiant and beautiful woman as May. Peter had been wrong. He’d had to have been. 

He tried to force away the wave of nausea that followed this claim in his mind, and the increasingly strong urge to cry biting at his eyes as he repeated the mantra over and over. He’d been wrong. Sam was a good guy. He had to give him a chance. 

Peter let May help him sweep up the shards of porcelain, before brushing them into the trash can with a satisfying sense of finality. They were gone, and the scent of lemon gone with them, and his aunt was talking about something at work yesterday and everything was normal. It had to be. With an enthusiastic smile painted on his face, Peter bid goodbye to May and Sam, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled when Sam raised a hand to wave him away, and started towards his school, squinting at the sun peeking through the grey clouds and reminding himself that everything was going to be okay. 

He should’ve known the sentiment wouldn’t last long.

By the time Peter got to school, the thick and unrelenting fog of uncertainty had once again found its home in Peter’s mind. Lemon scented memories of fear and confusion and pumping adrenaline drifted in the mist, repeating themselves over and over until Peter felt a familiar pressure on his chest. There had been a time, he thought, as he drifted like a shadow through the bustling school halls, that he’d counted the hours until he could burst through the double front doors of Midtown High and swing across the streets of New York. Now, he longed for the clock to slow, to keep him shrouded in the familiarity of his science classroom, or shoulder-to-shoulder with Ned in the cafeteria. In a time where New York was become more foreign to him by the day, and the concept of “home” was little more than a distant memory, Peter ached to stay in the sanctuary of a place he knew. Even if-

“Dude, I heard you took a brutal hit last night!”

Ned’s enthusiastic whisper shot across the lunch table so fast that Peter barely even had time to process it, before it was filling every empty space in his chest with tight, merciless fear. He couldn’t know...

How could he know? 

“I- Uh-“ Peter’s words failed him as he opened and closed his mouth, mind whirring to make sense of the situation. Ned couldn’t know, he couldn’t...

“Come on, dude, don’t hold out on me now!” Ned whined, and Peter could see he was practically fizzing with excitement. Confusion filled Peter’s mind, nothing about this situation made any sense... How did Ned know, and more importantly, why was he acting like Peter had just singlehandedly taken down a gang of bank robbers...

_Oh_. 

Cursing himself, Peter forced thoughts of Sam out of his mind for what felt like the thousandth time that day, and painted on a weak smile. 

“You mean the department store thing, right?” he hissed back, lowering his head the way he always did when he and Ned buzzed over Peter’s secret. Somehow, in a way that even impressed himself, Peter had managed to keep his slump and subsequent two week break from Spiderman from Ned, who seemed to accept every excuse about being “sick” that Peter dished out without question. True, Peter hated lying to his best friend, but the idea of Ned worrying, or the thought of him working overtime to help Peter get back on his feet, had somehow made him feel worse. So, he’d lied, kept up a facade of youthful excitement and teenage energy, and when the slump ended, Peter hadn’t seemed to be able to stop. Soon every time Ned was asking him if he was okay, Peter felt his lips were forming dismissive words of reassurance before his brain could even hear what they were. It made him sick, knowing that Ned was only trying to help, and that it would hurt him deeply to learn that Ned was doing anything of the sort to him... But sometimes, he would find that his fake smile almost reached his eyes, and feigning words of excitement even worked to melt some of the icy dread constantly settled above Peter’s ribcage - a brief moment of reprieve from the incessantly dark world of his own mind. So, Peter always supposed, with a sigh into the quiet of his room as his brain screamed at him to call Ned, to stop being such a worthless friend, Ned was helping in his own way. By not knowing. By treating him like he wasn’t about to crumble to pieces at the slightest pressure - whether or not he felt like it. 

Today, however, wasn’t one of those days. Peter recounted the story of the Macy’s robbery like a robotic answering machine, trying to remind himself to systematically insert an influx of emotion into certain words or phrases. It was nothing more than a coded response, as if he were being programmed to say the right things at the right time and not cause any concern. A perfectly oiled machine. 

When he was done, Peter felt the weight of misery settle even more heavily on his shoulders, and he mustered up as much vigour as he could to excuse himself from Ned and peel away to the library, where the throbbing of his thoughts wouldn’t have to compete with the equally loud bustle of the cafeteria. As Peter sat with his head in his hands, rubbing his temples with his palms and desperately trying to fend off his impending headache, his phone vibrated in his back pocket. Confusion cutting through his deep gloom, Peter fished it out, wondering with apprehension if Ned had finally read too deeply into his hollow expressions, and was calling to work things out. Peter’s confusion only grew, however, as his eyes adjusted to the glow on the screen, and saw the name flashing at him. 

_Tony Stark._

An influx of emotion immediately flooded Peter’s body, and he silently thanked God that he’d already been sitting down, because the rush of fear, bewilderment and disorientation, mixed with the childlike excitement that Peter always had to subtly quash whenever he had the chance to speak to his childhood hero turned mentor, was strong enough to have knocked over his weakened form. Trying to ignore his quavering fingers, Peter pressed at the screen, accepting the call, and held the phone to his ear, opening his mouth and debating whether or not to speak a greeting into the line. 

“Hey there, slugger.”

Tony’s clear and confident voice rang through the phone speakers before Peter could stammer out a hello, and he once again found himself thanking whatever force was controlling the universe, as his mind processed what Tony had said. If Ned hadn’t made a reference to it not twenty minutes previously, Tony’s words might’ve sent him into an icy and paralysing fear, and thrown his brain into overdrive, wondering how Tony could know and what he was implying... Instead, however, Peter simply gave a throaty sort of laugh, and replied with as much faux confidence as he could manage, to match Tony’s.

“Yeah, it was a pretty eventful night.”

Well, that was the truth. 

Perhaps Tony heard the tightness in Peter’s voice, because when he replied, punctuating his words with a light chuckle, his tone was softer. The difference was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but Peter felt it. Felt it like a steady hand on his shoulder, and a meaningful glance in his direction. And it filled him with warmth. 

“Yeah, I bet. Remind me to add ‘stop a department store robbery’ to my to-do list.” 

Peter let out a soft laugh at that, and Tony seemed to brighten on the other end of the phone. 

“Hey, listen, I don’t know what you’ve got going on after school today but I was wondering if you wanted to swing by the lab?”

Ever since he’d woken up this morning, with the scars of Sam’s actions seared across his brain, everything around Peter had been too damn loud. It was like his skull had turned into a soundproof box, trapping every noise, every choking laugh, every shattering bowl, and keeping them there, echoing over and over, drowning each other out in a horrible crescendo. The sound had been reverberating throughout his entire body, vibrating his bones and sending shockwaves to his heart as his overactive senses worked to pick up more and more - the sound of a fork scraping teeth on the other side of the cafeteria, the person tearing pages from their notebook in the back corner of the library, the shrill scream of the whistle from the football field outside... But with Tony’s words, came an image of reprieve. His lab, soaked in sunlight, miles above the cacophonous roar of New York City, the crackle of a record player, Tony humming along... It was as if Peter had been plunged underwater, shutting everything out, turning everything off...

And then it was gone, and the walls of Peter’s skull became a battleground once more. 

With his eyes closed, Peter pressed the cool screen of the phone to his forehead and sighed. On one hand, every fibre of his being screamed for the sanctuary of Tony’s lab, but on the other... The thought of making Sam angry again, of getting home late, of disappointing May... 

Peter felt his stomach turn. It wasn’t worth it. And then came Tony’s voice again. 

“Pete? You there? Listen, it wouldn’t be for long, I’ve just got this pesky glitch I’m trying to work out with the eyes of the suit and I thought-“

“Yes! Sorry, sorry Mr. Stark, I-“ Peter’s lips betrayed his brain as the words tumbled from his tongue, so afraid of losing the opportunity to feel the safety of Tony’s lab surrounding him. 

“I-I’d love to,” he finished with a wince, painfully aware of the fact that he’d just interrupted his mentor like he was a petulant child. However, his wince melted into a soft expression of relief, as he heard the laughter in Tony’s content reply. 

“Great, Happy will swing by and pick you up after school.” He said crisply, and Peter could tell that his mind had already moved on to the next task at hand, indicating that this phone call was over. 

“Awesome, see you then, Mr. Stark,” Peter replied quietly, trying not to hint at his desperation to keep his mentor on the line. 

“What? Oh, yeah, see you this afternoon, kid.”

And then he was gone.

The rest of the day melted by in a blend of mundane lessons and fading fall sunlight, turning the deep brown leaves strayed across the grass outside Peter’s classroom window to flecks of fire. As he trained his eyes on them, selectively ignoring the drone of his History teacher, Peter let his mind wander, entertaining himself with thoughts of the lab and mulling over questions he’d been meaning to ask Tony. The idea calmed him so easily, that the smile on Peter’s face as he waved goodbye to Ned and slung his backpack into the back seat of the Audi waiting in the parking lot for him, almost reached his eyes. 

As it turned out, the glitch in Tony’s “Mark IV” version of Peter’s Spiderman suit was an almost laughably simple fix, and Tony had chuckled good-naturedly as Peter had pointed out his obvious mistake in as gentle a way as possible. 

“You know, I’m not some old man, and that’s not an iPad that I don’t know how to use, so you don’t have to give me that look,” He’d chuckled, pushing the newly fixed suit towards Peter in a way that he assumed was meant to look gruff. A wide grin had cracked Peter’s features as he leaned forward across the desk, head cupped in his hands and eyes fixed directly on Tony. At the comment, however, he leapt back, his features rearranging into an expression of indignance. 

“What look? I wasn’t giving you any look!” He exclaimed, which only made Tony narrow his eyes, his faux-glare deepening. 

“I used to be just like you, you know. Thought I knew everything. Well, come to me when you know how to run a multi-million dollar company and save the world in your spare time.” Tony snapped, twisting so that his back was to Peter. 

“Okay, know anyone around here who could give me some tips? I mean, I know Pepper’s got the company thing down but saving the world... You don’t think you could get me Cap on the phone, do you?” Humour glinted once again in the younger boy’s eyes, but as Tony whipped around, a little too fast, and his eyes flared, Peter felt his heart drop through the floor. 

_Shit_. 

 The comment about Steve was risky, toeing a line that Peter couldn’t even clearly see from where he stood. He knew that after the events in Germany, Tony and Steve had fallen out even harder. And although he also knew that while they weren’t exactly back on speaking terms, the two of them had reconciled and agreed to settle their differences a few months ago. But that was all he knew. 

“Nice one, Peter.” The shadows in his mind swirled and hissed as Peter kicked himself for his senseless thoughts and runaway tongue. He’d really done it now. He’d taken a flamethrower to the only sanctuary he’d had left, and now all he could do was sit among the ashes. Images of Coney Island smoking, and the clean white walls in his apartment building, and the dark, unforgiving pit of his bedroom. He burned every place that ever opened its doors to him, left them smouldering in his wake, along with the charred remnants of that which used to love him. His parents, uncle Ben, May and now... Tony. 

Peter’s heart threatened to break through his chest as he felt himself falling further into the waiting arms of his inner monsters. They surrounded him like wisps of smoke, filling his entire body with an icy cold dread. Tony was talking, Peter could hear the deep thrum of his voice from somewhere behind the thick sheen of glass he seemed to be trapped behind, and he whispered a thank you to his new companions. They were shielding him, protecting him from whatever angry and resentful things Tony was shouting at him. A lump formed in Peter’s throat, bringing with it the insistent threat of tears. 

“ _No_.” Peter thought. “ _Not here_.”

It felt as though he were looking at the lab through completely new eyes - it’s normally sunlit interior was dull, lifeless and disheartening. The walls seemed to flicker with unwelcoming shadows, monsters prowling just behind the surface, waiting for the opportune moment to cast him out. This was not his place anymore. The record had long since stopped, and the silence in the room felt even heavier than all the noise that had been plaguing Peter since the night before, and he found himself begging for it back. Begging for anything except this aching, biting quiet....

“Parker! Look at me, c’mon-“

Before his senses even had time to pick it up, Tony’s hand had plunged through the darkness, and the warm tips of his fingers were brushing the bottom of Peter’s chin, trying to tilt it upwards. Instantly, Peter’s whole body was reacting, as if Tony had punched him in the nose. He scuttled backwards, unable to conceal the sharp yelp that dropped from his lips. The skin below his mouth stung where Tony had touched it, and Peter could’ve sworn he could smell lemon...

This was just like last night, he thought. Sam hadn’t done the job, hadn’t got his point across, so now Tony was here for round two. Peter’s chest rose and fell rapidly as his eyes began to focus, just in time to see Tony approaching him slowly, with his hands raised in the air. A thrill of fear coursed through Peter from head to toe, dialling his already peak senses to 11, and bringing everything crashing down. 

And then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. 

As Peter’s senses had intensified, splitting open the muffled shield that Peter’s mind had provided, Tony’s voice had forced its way through, injecting itself directly into Peter’s brain and wrapping itself around it like a comforting embrace. 

“Kid, look at me.”

“Peter, it’s okay.”

“It’s okay, I’m sorry, you’re okay.”

Tony’s slow, deep voice repeated the words like a mantra, sending them deeper and deeper into the depths of Peter’s mind and extending a warm, open hand, leading Peter from the vast expanse of his fear and staring to guide him, slowly, towards the light. 

“Tony?” Peter’s small voice rang out, as the cool, quiet lab started to swim back into focus. He was lying with his back against the large window, resting his head on the cool glass. Beneath him, the tile was still slightly warm from the sun, and Peter resisted the urge to curl up against it. Tony was crouched a few feet away, eyes fixed on him with a strange intensity, all hints of the anger that Peter could've sworn he'd seen only moments previously drained from them. He was wringing his hands nervously - a tell that something was bothering him, and one that Peter had picked up on a while ago. At the sound of Peter’s voice, he shifted slightly closer to the younger boy, tentatively extending a hand and resting it on his outstretched leg. Peter accepted the odd comfort gratefully, as the reality of what he’d just done began to set in. A heavy shudder took over his body as he swallowed the sobs trying to claw their way out of his throat and chest. 

“I-I’m so sorry Mr. Stark-“ Peter choked out, his voice wavering violently. He watched in horror as Tony’s face crumpled against his words. Could he do anything without hurting people?

“N-no, I mean- uh-“ Peter trailed off, completely at a loss, but desperate to repair the situation he’d so recklessly caused. 

“Peter.” Tony said simply, and his voice rang so clean and clear that it stopped the younger boy in his tracks. He raised his head, levelling his eyes so that he was gazing directly into Peter’s watery ones, and Peter returned the stare apprehensively. 

“Kid, it’s okay, I- uh-“ Tony let out a breath, as if he were struggling to find the words he was trying to form. “I think you just had a panic attack. Don’t sweat it, okay?”

_Panic attack._

The words echoed in Peter’s mind, solidifying more and more with each repetition. Tony’s eyes were still on him, and he shuffled awkwardly, unsure of how to react. 

“Hey, Pete, we all get ‘em. It sucks, but you don’t need to feel bad about it, okay?”

Peter nodded, screwing up his eyes as the urge to cry returned with a vengeance. He tilted his head to look at Tony, who pushed himself to his feet and lowered a hand down to Peter. Once he was standing, the warm orange light of the sunset wrapped its metaphorical arms around him and helped him stay steady. From this angle, the lab was his again, and Peter felt the familiar sense of safety reclaim its rightful place in the pit of his chest. He was okay. 

Tony was walking back towards the work station, lifting up a piece of tech that resembled a mini arc reactor. 

“Now, I know I called you to work on your suit but I could really use your expertise here...”

Peter accepted the lifeline eagerly, slipping casually back into the rhythm of tinkering and bantering with Tony, until dusk started to nip at the corners of the sky, and he decided it was time to make his way home. 

As Tony showed him out, he kept a hand securely on his shoulder - a reassurance that he was still here, that they were still good, that nothing had changed, and Peter was infinitely grateful for it. And, just before Peter stepped out into the evening, and let the navy blue glow of the sky swallow him up, he leaned his face towards Peter’s, gaze suddenly more serious. 

“Listen, Pete. You tell me if it happens again, okay?”

The intensity of Tony’s stare made Peter feel slightly uncomfortable, but something about the concern in his mentor’s voice filled him with an inexplicable strength. He nodded, his eyes mirroring Tony’s earnestness. 

“Yeah, Mr. Stark. I will.”

And then Peter was gone, enveloped by the velvety dark blue grasp of the New York evening, and on his way home. By the time he reached the apartment, a smile was tugging gently at the corners of his lips, and he registered one, clear thought - he felt more content and safe than he had in a long time. 

_Goddamn_ , he really had to stop speaking too soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that classified as a cliffhanger? If so, sorry, but you'll just have to wait and see what happens!! Let me start by saying that I was really, really keen to get this chapter out, so if it's a little messy or has some typos I'M SO SORRY!! And I promise the next chapter will be a lot more refined. Also, sorry for the massive amounts of angst in this chapter but hey, I warned y'all it was gonna be an angsty train wreck. Obviously, as you can see from my descriptions of the whole Tony/Steve situation, I'm straying into a little bit more of an alternate universe, but only in ways that fit the plotline a little better, nothing too major I promise!! 
> 
> Like I said, I'm hoping to have the next chapter up within the week, and hopefully it'll be slightly more fine-tuned than this mess, but as always PLEASE please please don't hesitate to leave your thoughts down below and let me know how you're feeling about everything. As a writer, your opinions mean the absolute world to me!!! Anyways, thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you next time!!


	4. dark blue dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter thought he’d stayed dark blue since then. His heart bore the colour of the ocean on a starless night, vast and threatening in its depth. He’d always hated the way the water turned apocalyptic as soon as the light disappeared, like all that twinkling sapphire had been nothing but a mask for the benefit of the people who were too lively to stand on the beach after dusk. To see the ocean, in all its shuddering reality, black and churning, and oh so inviting. Peter’s mind flicked back to Coney Island again, the flickering flames illuminating the ocean with deep orange. That was all the light there was, he thought, biting flames and the waning moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. So. Do y'all ever just have a 3 week long breakdown and convince yourselves that you can't do anything, and that everything you do is worthless and meaningless and doesn't deserve to be seen by anyone, let alone people who you actually want to entertain. Same!!!!! And that's my... best explanation for why this chapter took SO LONG. I'm so sorry, but honestly, this chapter has undergone more transformations and (hopefully) glo ups than I ever will. It's been a long and messy process, and I was just so invested in getting this chapter right that I ended up shutting down and really just needing to take a break from it and come back to it like 10 days later, and I'm SO SO SO sorry that that meant you guys had to wait, and I really hope this is worth it!!! Please enjoy <3
> 
> (Also, I know the tags and the whole premise of the story suggest child abuse, but this chapter is where that premise starts to get a little realer and a little heavier, so please, if that's something that could upset you, proceed with caution xx)

As Tony watched the deep blue dusk wrap itself around  Peter’s slender form, he felt his exhaustion slam back down upon him like a physical weight on his limbs, clutching at his body and trying to drag it into the dirt. He heaved a sigh, letting himself fall into the waiting arms of his self-made suffering, and turning away from the spot where Peter had been consumed by the night. The kid’s presence had, as always, fought to fend off the weariness that had long since become his dominant personality trait. When Peter was around, it was as if the dark circles constantly accenting his eyes had vanished, replaced instead by a broad grin and a snappy comeback. His usual disgruntled and grumpy demeanour made way for light banter and genuine, heartfelt advice, punctuated by a joke or two. Even at the thought of the way Peter made Tony’s lab ten times brighter, something turned over in the older man’s heart. He exuded so much hope, so much joy and so much pure and innocent passion for science and knowledge and everything Tony had to offer him, that his very company took Tony back 20 years, and suddenly he saw a very different, but somehow identical 15 year old kid, bouncing around a dated lab, babbling about artificial intelligence and robots able to respond to human instruction...

Tony squeezed his eyes shut hard at the memory, willing his mind away from the subject. It shyed away without hesitation, instead landing back on Peter and working a smile onto Tony’s face. He’d never admit it to the kid, but having him around was seeming to heal wounds Tony hadn’t even been fully aware he’d had, and he loved every second of it. 

However, as Tony’s mind began to dwell, honing in even more carefully on the subject of the young boy, worry began to eat at the corners of Tony’s already worn out brain. Worrying for Peter wasn’t an uncommon affair in the mind of Tony Stark - in fact, not a day went by where Tony wasn’t checking in, whether the kid knew it or not, simply for his own peace of mind. It had started nearly half a year ago, once Happy’s reassurances that Peter was “just fine, and as annoying as ever” hadn’t proven to be enough to settle the roar of doubt and guilt rushing through Tony’s brain. However, after the plane crash, after Tony had found Peter with dull eyes and ashy lungs, slumped over precariously on the top of a roller coaster, while hungry flames licked at his ankles, things had really intensified. If Tony wasnt calling May, or even Peter himself, to settle his aching concern, he was tracking him, watching how quickly he got home from school, monitoring his whereabouts when he was out on rounds... Hell, he even had a Spiderman Google alert feeding him the latest news articles as quickly as possible. And though Pepper had once walked in on him with his eyes glued to a map, making sure Peter got back to his apartment after he insisted on walking home after a particularly late session in the lab and made a sly joke about “helicopter parenting”, Tony silently thanked God every day for the deep-seated peace of mind it gave him to know where Peter was, and to know that Peter was home and safe. 

He didn’t stop to consider how dangerous his intoxicating comfort was, how he was so immersed in the satisfaction of Peter being home safe that he never once suspected that the two words might not be synonymous.

**\---------**

The dark apartment whispered it’s welcomes to Peter as he slipped through the faded green front door, letting the shadows of the living room slice into his moonlit face. The air hung heavy, undisturbed, and Peter let out a soft, slow breath. He’d known that May was working a night shift, and therefore could’ve counted on the fact that he wouldn’t have to deal with Sam, but the possibility had still been pressing down on him, lurking around a corner... 

Hesitantly, Peter shrugged his schoolbag off his back, letting it drop onto the hardwood floor with a definitive thud and causing a dull echo to ripple through the thick air. The sound stung his ears, and he winced, waiting with prickling skin to see if the noise beckoned any unwanted intruders. 

To Peter’s utmost relief, the quiet remained undisturbed, and he settled into the rich and merciful silence with a sickeningly contrast mix of gratitude and his usual deep apprehension. He tried to focus on the warm highlights of his afternoon, hoping that his memories of working in the lab with Tony, of helping out with an arc reactor of all things, would provide a strong enough shield, a flashlight against the looming darkness that came hand in hand with the empty apartment. However, the shadow of his earlier episode pierced through Peter’s memories with ease, spreading gloom like spilling black ink across his thoughts. A panic attack, Tony had said. He screwed up his eyes, unsure whether he was more grateful to have put a name to the tightness that wrapped around his chest every night, or terrified of its implications. A mixture of both emotions, of closure and foreboding, of certainty and uncertainty, thrashed within him, turning the pits of his stomach into a battle ground as he slipped quickly through the living room, hoping to reach the sanctity of his bed before the final round began. 

Peter could barely even see the hallway to his bedroom through the slits of his eyes, hooded and heavy from the wear of the day. His eyelashes fluttered like window shutters, distorting the waning image before him as he shuffled slowly towards the room at the end of the hall, allowing his feet to follow a path he’d carved out years before. He knew every square inch of the hallway, every lump in the carpet and doorstop jutting from the walls, threatening to trip him as he walked. He’d fallen victim to them one too many times in his youth, retreating under his sheets with angry red elbows and tears wavering on the edges of his eyes, but he knew them now, knew this hallway far too well for it to hurt him. At least, that’s what he’d thought. He hadn’t anticipated, however, that his fatigue-blind eyes might not pick up the heavy figure shuffling towards him, or that the sound of uneven footsteps would be muffled by the carpet. 

Peter hadn’t known, hadn’t known that his oversight, his senseless overconfidence and willingness to leap headfirst into the false sense of security that so sweetly welcomed him, would lead to what it did. He hadn’t known that he’d spend the next week of his life obsessing over every detail of his memories, screaming at himself as he walked in the door, begging himself to just turn on the light, flooding his own mind with a chorus of “what if” and “if only” and “you could’ve stopped it”. But he hadn’t known, and instead, he’d felt his heart plummet through the floor as he collided with the thick wall of Sam’s torso, eliciting a roar that reduced Peter’s insides to a writhing pit. The older man cried out, his voice exuding equal tones of fury and disgust, as Peter scrambled backwards, tripping over the slew of apologies that immediately dropped from his lips. 

“Shit, Sam I- I didn’t see you and I, uh, I just got home and- and Aunt May’s working so I just thought-“

Peter’s mouth ran circles around his brain, trying desperately to force out a cohesive apology, to say something, anything, before-

In an instant, Peter felt his insides turn to stone, dropping to the floor of his stomach and threatening to drag him through the ground. He swallowed, trying to force air through his suddenly blocked throat. Sam’s hand, which had just clamped around his left arm, felt like a hot brand against his clammy skin, and Peter twisted without a second thought, desperate to free himself from the older man’s grip. 

This would work. He told himself. He was Spiderman, his strength was unmatched, and the adrenaline coursing through his body was bound to enhance it. This would work. He would get out. 

Except he didn’t, and Sam’s hand stayed. 

“This is the last straw, Pete,” Sam growled, his eyes fixed on Peter’s arm, where the boy was still struggling to get free. His voice was low, almost calm, but there was an edge to it that set Peter’s heart to stone. 

If he had been afraid before, he was downright _petrified_ now. He jerked his head upwards, driving Sam’s steely gaze directly into the path of his own, and regret washed through him instantly. Sam’s eyes were hard, and the colour of his irises in the dimly lit hallway was so close to black that Peter could taste his heart in his throat at the very sight of them. And they were angry, burningly angry, smouldering like the coals of a fire about to ignite. Again, Peter twisted, putting the force of all of his fear into a desperate wrench to escape, but felt Sam’s vice grip only tightens as those too-long fingernails sank deeper into his skin. 

Without saying another word, Sam began to walk towards the end of the hall, dragging Peter like a ball and chain towards the bedroom. His bedroom. Frustrated tears carved paths into Peter’s red cheeks, stinging the corners of Peter’s eyes as he struggled and clawed against the fingers, like ropes binding his arm. He could hear Sam’s breathing, short and building, as though he were a bull preparing to charge, and Peter felt crimson all over, a flag waving in the wind, boiling Sam’s blood as he marked his target. 

The walls of Peter’s bedroom whispered no greeting as Sam tossed him unceremoniously to the floor, where he landed on his newly freed arm with a groan. His slender fingers met the carpet, desperately entwining with the strands of wool that had, for so long, supported the weight of his insomniac feet. He focussed his eyes on it, searching for anything to shield his mind from the stare tunnelling into the back of his skull. The carpet was blue, dark blue, the colour of the tie that Peter’s father used to wear. He’d seen it in photos when he was very young, and he’d had to explain to his aunt and uncle that the tears in his eyes were because “Dad was wearing the colour of home.” The colour of the carpet in Peter’s room, alongside many other areas of the house, had worn down over the years, and the journeys of many wandering late night pacings were mapped out across its patchy pigmentation. Dark blue was also the colour that Peter had worn to Ben’s funeral. The suit had itched, and burned his raw skin. The emotional impact of the colour had come home to roost in Peter’s chest that night, as he’d curled up on the carpet whispering his heartbreak into the floor, because it had hurt too much to reach the bed. 

Peter thought he’d stayed dark blue since then. His heart bore the colour of the ocean on a starless night, vast and threatening in its depth. He’d always hated the way the water turned apocalyptic as soon as the light disappeared, like all that twinkling sapphire had been nothing but a mask for the benefit of the people who were too lively to stand on the beach after dusk. To see the ocean, in all its shuddering reality, black and churning, and oh so inviting. Peter’s mind flicked back to Coney Island again, the flickering flames illuminating the ocean with deep orange. That was all the light there was, he thought, biting flames and the waning moon. 

Aunt May had been his moon. A sliver of pearly light, a soft glow cast across his empty expanse. She had always been the one to cut through the swirling darkness with her gentle light, always been the one he could rely on. But tonight, a storm was thundering above Peter. Thick clouds were bombarding the sky, and filling it with smoke so heavy that the moon was nowhere to be seen. 

As Peter gripped onto the carpet, Sam shifted above him, seemingly unable to maintain his balance as he towered over the younger boy’s trembling form. Shaking again. Peter cursed himself, wishing that his body would stop giving away the sorrows of his mind. He stayed as still as possible, eyes focussed on the shag carpet, mind locked on the gathering storm, while Sam paced around his bedroom, muttering words that Peter didn’t want to hear. 

He was mad. He was always mad, but today there was something different about it. Today his rage seemed palpable, as though it was running through the air around them. Peter felt it like electricity, forcing the hairs on his arm to stand on end...

Oh. 

A new brand of fear coursed through Peter’s veins as the realisation of the situation hit him. He’d seen the hairs on his arms stand up like that many times before, and had felt the sense of dread sitting like a weight in his stomach on too many occasions to count. Peter screwed up his eyes as his whole body tensed. His senses had never been wrong. 

There was something different about Sam’s rage tonight - tonight something bad was going to happen.

This sudden discovery meant that Peter’s entire body coiled like a tight spring, ready to snap at a moments notice. This, in turn, meant that when Sam approached him, his body flinched violently, and Peter felt the man’s rage flare up as though it were a house fire surrounding him on all sides. 

“What the _fuck_?” Sam demanded, his voice dripping in the remnants of the alcohol that fuelled it. “Are you afraid of me, Peter?”

Instantly, Peter scrambled to a sitting position, still not trusting his legs to hold him, opting instead to lean against the cool metal of his bed frame as he tilted his head upwards to meet Sam’s glare. He opened his mouth, the word “no” clinging resolutely to his tongue. The lie dug its nails into the walls of his throat, despite Peter’s attempts to force it out. Sam’s eyes narrowed even further as the younger boy battled with himself, dissatisfied with the heavy stretch of silence. 

“No...” Peter choked out eventually, swallowing against the claw marks he could feel stinging his mouth. 

Sam huffed, stepping closer, and Peter’s senses hit him like a freight train. Every nerve in his body clenched and released, screaming danger into deaf ears, while Peter sat motionless, his limbs performing rapid betrayal, refusing to budge. 

“You know,” Sam began, as the air around them fizzed and rumbled, as if anticipating a disaster, “when I met your aunt, I didn’t know she had kids.”

Peter swallowed. There was something about the way the older man’s voice curled around the words that reminded him of smoke twisting into the night air, the smell of a burning beach, the sting of ash forcing tears out of his tired eyes...

“She never mentioned you, you know.” Sam continued, a sick grin warping his words. “I think she felt free, you know Pete?. I can only imagine how hard it must get, having to deal with a brat like you all the time... Fuck, I woulda lied about you too...”

As Sam’s grin grew wider, the smoke surrounding Peter felt thicker and stung harder, forcing its way into his throat, his chest, his lungs, fuelled by every insecurity that had ever plagued him under the shroud of the night. Sam was spitting every dark thought Peter had ever had back in his face, the truth lacing through every syllable like poison to his already vulnerable heart. He’d always been able to write off his concerns about whether or not May actually wanted him to side effects of the intoxicating cloak of the night and the demons that haunted his room in the early hours of the morning. But, as Sam’s words hung venomously in the air, Peter started to question whether the only demon haunting his room was himself. 

“Does she- Did Aunt May really not mention me?”

The words were out of Peter’s mouth before he could stop them, tiny and sensitive. He cast his mind back, reflecting wistfully on the way the sunset had cast slices of orange light across Tony’s lab, and the way his mentor had laughed at all of Peter’s stupid jokes, despite the fact that he had definitely heard them before. Where had it all gone so wrong?

His question was met with a laugh, cold and stony. Sam’s laugh, Peter thought, sounded a lot like his eyes - reflecting the dark emptiness that taunted Peter every time they fixed themselves on him. 

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” The older man choked out, his drunkenness becoming more apparent as whatever sick pleasure he was taking from the situation took a firmer hold amongst his anger. “Kid, the first time I even knew you existed was when you walked through the front fuckin’ door.” 

Once, when Peter was 12, he, Ben and May had been invited to a wedding. One of their friend’s’ daughters, they told him, as May picked out a nice button down for him to wear, and Ben showed him how to match his belt to his shoes. The best man had stood up, and Peter had watched as he swayed on his feet, looking as though he was threatening to be taken away by the breeze. He’d been drunk, but nobody around him seemed to care. The groom had offered an arm, laughing with an open mouth as his friend once again struggled to work out the physics of standing on the spot. He’d stumbled his way through a speech, and everyone had laughed, including Peter. It was nice, innocent, and the buzz in the air had been warm, the colour of the champagne that filled his aunt and uncle’s glasses, and the laughter hung in the room like golden streamers. Eventually, however, the best man had proposed a toast, flinging his (naturally) empty glass into the air with an enthusiastic flourish, while everyone followed suit. Peter had raised his grape juice, a smile ghosting his face as he contemplated flinging it as high as the man at the podium, just to see if he could do it the same way. Before he could make a decision, however, the sound of shattering glass had caused him to fumble his own, only just managing to manoeuvre it safely back to the table before clapping his hands over his ears. Peter may not have had spider venom ringing in his eardrums at that point, but his sensitivity to sound hadn’t always been genetically enhanced. Since he was a child, sudden sounds that suggested danger or violence had caused visceral reactions in him, whether he’d been aware of them or not. In this case, the sound of shattering glass had rendered him shaking like a child, seeking out the comfort that only came from being clutched against May’s side. 

The smashed glass had been swept away quickly, and the involuntary feeling away with it, but Peter couldn’t help but save himself a mental note. Drunk people broke things. It’s just what they did. 

As Sam’s words hit their target, landing directly in the pits of Peter’s chest, he heard another smash. His heart, ever fragile and supple, so often made of glass, dropped aimlessly against the floor of his stomach, the shards lodging in his ribcage as the sound of the shatter echoed across his entire body. Drunk people broke things. This was a fact that Peter Parker was learning all too often. But some things were more precious than others. 

Peter didn’t realise until later that he would be wishing that Sam had stopped at the heart. That he’d be wishing that the contorted look of heartbreak on his face hadn’t fuelled Sam’s burning rage. That he’d be wishing he’d had the strength to dodge the kick when it came, squarely between the ribs, and that he’d be wishing Sam hadn’t seemed to enjoy the noise so much. 

Making the young boy grunt and yelp in pain only grew the older man’s smile wider, as he struck out with his good leg, landing kick after kick, peppering Peter’s body with bruises that he hoped to God would be gone by the morning. 

“When I was a kid,” Sam was saying, intent punctuating each blow with a sentence just as damaging, “my dad knew how to raise me right. Your aunt’s sweet, but she’s soft. You better fuckin’ believe you’re not gonna be pulling any of this ‘Stark internship’ bullshit with me.”

Peter’s heart dropped at the mention of Tony’s name, wishing for a split second that he could look up, and see Iron Man swooping in to save him. Instead, noticing the way Peter’s form crumpled at the name, the boy got a final, heavy kick to the stomach that stole the wind from his lungs, and a rough hand on his collar, yanking him upwards. 

“Didn’t like that, eh?” Sam goaded, and from this angle, Peter could see all the places where his toothbrush hadn’t reached. His breath reeked of stale beer, and somehow, the sickening scent of lemon dish soap hung sweetly in the air. Bile crept up Peter’s throat, but terror forced it down again. “See, you can tell your aunt whatever bullshit story you want, but that shit’s not gonna fly with me. An internship with Tony Stark? Huh. No. There’s only a few reasons a little shit like you is creeping home this late at night, and I’m not gonna tolerate a single one.”

As he finished talking, Sam released Peter’s shoulder with a rough shove, and Peter stumbled backwards, slamming the back of his head on the corner of his metal frame. As the sickening clang echoed around the room, Sam began to retreat, and Peter thought he saw a grin flicker on his face. 

The last thing Peter heard, as black spots clouded his vision and a warm, sticky substance gathered rapidly around the base of his skull, was Sam’s voice, distant, but chilling as ever. 

“There’s gonna be some changes around here.” He called, his words swimming along with the room. Then, he was gone, and Peter’s world took one last breath, before the curtains closed, and everything faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO that was her!!! In all her messy glory!!! I wanna apologise for any spelling errors etc. that may occur (please let me know!!), because this chapter has been such a mess and I wouldn't be surprised if it was RIDDLED with mistakes that slipped through the cracks. On that note!!! I really hope you guys enjoyed this update, and sorry again that it took so long to get it out. If you did enjoy it, please please please leave some feedback/comments, I absolutely loving hearing from you guys and reading your reviews, it brings my tired lil heart so much joy!!!! You can also hit me up on https://uxorcide.tumblr.com if you have anything you want to ask/comment on further!!! Thank you for reading and sticking with me, I rly hope u all enjoyed this update and that ur looking forward to where this story's going (bc I sure am) !!! <3


	5. thunder only grows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relentless air conditioning in the reception area where he sat made every breath feel like a mission, the cold burning his throat and working tirelessly against Peter’s already aching form. He pressed his shaking palms to his eyes, trying desperately to shield himself from the too-bright minimalist gleam of his surroundings, but the darkness only accentuated the aching in his ribs, and the ever-present throbbing at the base of his skull...
> 
> As the painful reminder caused Peter’s head to swim, the walls moved closer. 
> 
> He wasn’t sure if he was going to get out of this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So it’s 3am where I am and I JUST finished writing this chapter as we speak, and don’t ask me why, but there’s some little voice in my head just willing me to post it without proof reading it or ANYTHING. So.... That’s what I’m doing. She’s messy and she’s tired, but she’s here. 
> 
> ANYWAY i just wanted to take the time really quick to thank you guys for all your comments/feedback. I’ve been reading them over and over since i posted the last chapter and I’m really not exaggerating when I say that your reviews keep me going. They really mean the world and they warm my cold little insomniac writer heart. THANK YOU !!!! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Happy reading x

At this point in his life, Peter Parker was used to feeling the walls pressing in on him. He’d felt them in his apartment, when the air hung cold and devoid of May’s soft breaths drifting from the room down the hall. He’d felt them in his classrooms, when the heat of the sun filtering in through the windows started to feel more like a furnace than a warmth. In fact, he was sure he’d felt it when he’d learned that his parents were never coming home, despite the fact he’d been outside, that there’d been no walls to compress him, that he’d been free... He’d still felt them - looming and persistent, rushing to contain him, to wrap him in a fear that was so rapidly threatening to consume him. 

He was also sure he’d felt the walls every day since then. 

On this particular day, however, as he tried to slow his steadily rising heart rate against the tide of fear that was rushing towards him, the walls weren’t just pressing in on Peter Parker. They were crushing him. 

The principal’s office of Midtown High School was nestled amongst the web of administration facilities near the front of the school, and guarded fiercely by a team of stony-faced receptionists. As a result, the office, and the building it resided in, bore the painstakingly sterile tendencies of a school trying desperately to impress. The walls, which were moving steadily closer to Peter as his chest grew tighter and his breathing shallower, were painted pearl-white, almost painfully bright, and were adorned with minimalist artwork that Peter could never hope to understand. The whole room was so unwelcoming, as if it were designed for his discomfort, and engineered for precisely situations like... This one. The sound of receptionist keyboards drummed against Peter’s skull, getting louder and louder until they reached a vicious crescendo, the rapid clicking filling his brain like pelting hail, a storm ready to descend upon him, amplifying the intensity of the sterile environment until the smell of cherry blossom cleaning fluid threatened to choke him and the walls started compressing his bones...

The need to present a clean, organised facade to potential guests that was so clearly displayed within Midtown’s reception, was a trope that Peter knew all too well. It had been a trait of May’s that had always confused him, even when he was young. The hours before a planned visit would be spent frantically wiping, scrubbing, vacuuming and tidying what was, to Peter, an already perfectly adequate house. Sure, it was never the cleanest - Peter would leave his legos strewn out in front of the couch, ready for his next Star Wars marathon where he’d fiddle idly with the pieces as he hungrily took in the series he’d seen a dozen times before. And sure, the two’s dishes would often pile up during a week where they were both too busy to bother too much, but it was warm, and it was inviting, and it was home. And by the time May’s tirade had ended, Peter would take in his too-clean apartment and feel a tightness in his chest. As if he himself were too chaotic to stand amongst such pristine. 

It was a lonely feeling, but it had been rare. Until Sam stepped into the picture, bringing with him a whirlwind of dustpans and sparkling surfaces, and a home that never felt quite right. Peter’s apartment was always clean now. 

The relentless air conditioning in the reception area where he sat made every breath feel like a mission, the cold burning his throat and working tirelessly against Peter’s already aching form. He pressed his shaking palms to his eyes, trying desperately to shield himself from the too-bright minimalist gleam of his surroundings, but the darkness only accentuated the aching in his ribs, and the ever-present throbbing at the base of his skull...

As the painful reminder caused Peter’s head to swim, the walls moved closer. 

He wasn’t sure if he was going to get out of this one. 

The warble of a landline sliced its way through the drumming in Peter’s mind with a sudden screech, causing the young boy to flinch violently in his seat, and catch a pointed side-eye from the nearest receptionist. As the ghost of the ringing phone echoed in his ears however, so did it’s implications. A second receptionist, with one leathery hand still wrapped around the phone, raised a finger, adorned with chipped purple polish, and motioned Peter’s way forward. He swallowed, feeling the weight of the past few hours hitting him at full force as he glanced down at his aching legs, wondering briefly if they’d move. Prior to entering Principal Morita’s office, Peter hadn’t thought it possible to feel any lower than he already did. The shadows of the day’s events washed over him with an unsettling foreboding, repeating themselves over and over in Peter’s mind, only enhanced by the dull ache in his side, that had been growing steadily more uncomfortable throughout his half hour wait in the reception area. Now, as he stood, moving tentatively towards the office, the agony reignited, sending waves of pain across Peter’s body that had him balling his fists, working hard to stay upright. 

Today wasn’t the day he’d let his cracks show. 

The principal, to his credit, decorated with a far more welcoming eye than the offices surrounding him. Warm, smiling photographs, old war medals and several framed documents that Peter had to strain his eyes to make out, adorned the too-white walls, soaking them in all the depth and character that the surrounding hallways were so desperately lacking. However, as soon as the door clicked shut, it felt as if all the air in the room dissipated, leaving only Peter, desperate and vulnerable in the eyes of his superior. He shuffled awkwardly to one of two chairs, which had been placed directly in the eyeline of Morita, who was leaning against his desk with his glasses halfway down his nose, shuffling papers across its surface. Midtown High’s principal had never been known to be particularly exuberant - in fact, his hard-nosed personality had become something of an infamous running joke throughout the school, punctuated with many weak Jaws references and mixed metaphors involving sharks, lions, and any other predator the student body could collectively string together on any given week. But, aside from the odd chuckle at a particularly well-crafted joke at his expense, Peter had never feared his principal. In fact, he’d looked up to him, and relished in his praise after each successful decathalon. But today, as he crossed the threshold of an office where he’d normally be built up, Peter felt his foundations crumbling. Morita glanced upwards at the teenager, eyes flashing with something unrecognisable. He looked nothing short of casual, as though this were a friendly chat about extra-curriculars, rather than... Peter forced the rest of the thought out of his mind, before it could turn on him and charge. He was calm. He had to be calm. 

“Peter,” Principal Morita began, wrenching the boy’s heart directly back into his throat with his clear, stern address. “I have to say, this isn’t exactly something I’d have expected to have you in my office for...”

Peter immediately opened his mouth to reply, the apology practically buzzing on his lips, but Morita held up a hand, looking somber. 

“I’d like to finish, before I hear your side of the story. I was hoping your aunt would be joining us, but luckily we got hold of your other emergency contact-“

“Please, no-“ Peter began, unable to stop the words from tumbling out in the time it took for him to clap a hand over his own mouth. Images of Sam dragging him out of the principal’s office had plagued his mind, during his half hour wait, the results becoming darker and darker with each repetition, and at this stage he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to keep from throwing up at the sight of his aunt’s boyfriend. 

Principal Morita paused, his furrowed brow only forcing the hot blade of regret deeper into Peter’s chest. His clumsy, yet inexplicably silver tongue had wrestled him out of so many situations, explained away bruises, excused absences... It was a cruel and twisted irony that it would be the thing to betray him. Taking a deep breath, he all but closed his eyes in preparation for the blow he knew had to be coming - the shift from confusion, to calculating to... Realisation. 

It had been two months since Peter had blinked sleep out of his eyes from the floor of his bedroom for the first time. Since the morning light had pierced straight through his skull for the first time. Since he’d spent his first shower scrubbing dried blood out of his hair, off his face, and down the drain. Since Peter’s storm had begun - his own, private storm, where the thunderclaps were muffled by his excuses, and the lightning was covered with long sleeves. 

For the first few days, he’d almost been sure it had been a dream. A manifestation of his sleep deprivation, of his deep mistrust for Sam, of his jealousy, of his desperate fear of losing May. It seemed the only possible explanation, when partnered with the painstaking averageness of his life the next morning, and each morning after. Peter read books, and he knew what victims of abuse were supposed to act like. He was supposed to be traumatised, and Sam was supposed to loom over him at every presented opportunity. That’s how abusive households operated - under the dark shroud of fear, quiet whispers between walls, solemn meals under the watchful eye of an oppressor. Abusive households were gloom. They were mouldy walls and heating that didn’t work, they were bland meals and timid small talk. They were... Sad. Weren’t they? 

Abusive households weren’t walking into your kitchen on a school morning, to find banana pancakes and a toothy smile. They weren’t your aunt laughing giddily as she folded a tablecloth, or glasses filled with orange juice, or the faded hum of morning radio filling the room with life. But that was what Peter had been greeted with the morning after Sam had left him cowering against his bed frame. His hair had still been wet from the shower, Peter remembered, and the way the tendrils at the back clung to his neck had reminded him painfully of the way the water had turned rosy after he’d stepped under the spray, and how the smell of blood had mingled badly with his shampoo.

But there was music playing, and Sam had a spatula in his hand, and this wasn’t what abuse looked like. 

It had been a concept that had preyed upon Peter’s thoughts, eating away at the very foundations of his mind, until he was thoroughly consumed by it. And all the while, Sam remained placid, friendly... downright kind... And as the sun would set, and he’d sink deeper into his thoughts, Peter would start to wonder if anything had even happened, if it was all in his head, if he really was going mad... 

And then Peter had come home late from rounds. Again. 

He’d crept so lightly in through the window that he was sure even he couldn’t pick up the shifting of his own movements, shedding the suit and stowing it away as swiftly as possible, before diving into his already tousled bed covers. He was sure he’d made it, was sure that the coast was clear… 

It was, ironically, a sliver of light that signified the rumble of the coming storm. One stream of yellow lamplight, cutting through the darkness that Peter had so eagerly hidden himself within, and there he was - eyes flashing, breath uneven, arms raised…   
The memory caused a slight wince to flash across Peter’s face, accompanied by the sudden ache of bruises that had long since become ghosts upon Peter’s skin (though that wasn’t to say they weren’t replaced within the week.)

And so, Peter Parker had become a victim. He hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t allowed his mind to accept the fact that was so vigorously pressing against the forefront of his consciousness, but that was what he was. His presence became smaller - at school he was subdued, quiet, speaking only when spoken to, as if Sam would be lurking around every corner, and at home… At home, Peter was invisible, working constantly, with every ounce of effort he had in his body, to exist as little as possible. And yet, Sam would still find Peter in his bedroom each night, and his fists would find their targets, and Peter would feel himself descending deeper into the pit that Sam had so happily dug for him…

Peter’s silence became both his best tool and his worst enemy, as the battle between his tongue and his heart raged through the nights that his sheets turned to straightjackets while his thoughts, like chains, bound him to the idea that he was stuck, trapped, completely at Sam’s mercy. Peter knew enough about abuse to know what was supposed to happen. He knew that he was supposed to come forward, to find a “trusted adult”, a confident ear to pour his problems into, so that they could swoop in and force open the curtains, shedding some light back into the deep pit of Peter’s soul. But this wasn’t any regular situation. Sure, Peter often spent hours awake, eyes glued to the luminescent glare of his phone screen, the name “Tony Stark” seared into the back of his brain, and sure, he would sometimes spend hours locked inside a fantasies, watching Tony pulling Sam off him, arresting him, sending him away... And sure, sometimes his fantasies liked to dip amongst the darker caves of Peter’s mind, and he’d crawl within himself, half inspired, half terrified, by the images of Tony tackling Sam to the ground, kicking him, aiming right at the ribs... Just like Sam did. 

His mind dragged him back to the night where he’d hurried out Tony’s door, trying and failing to conceal the anxiety radiating off his sweat-speckled skin as he prepared for the mad rush home. He’d stayed too long. He always did. Tony had asked him about the sudden curfew, with that ever-present concern woven into his features, and Peter had mumbled something about May’s new boyfriend, practically having to choke the onslaught of words back down his throat. He wanted to tell Tony how afraid he was, how the shadows on his walls felt more real than he did most nights, how he was sure that any room was darker when Sam was in it. He wanted to tell him about the bruises that stained his skin, and how he was sure they were taking longer to heal these days. He wanted to tell Tony how badly he needed saving. 

But he didn’t. 

Every time the words rushed to pass his lips, they’d hit a wall. Full blown images of May would flood Peter’s barren mind - her sunset smile, her starlight laugh, the way her eyes would light up when Sam told a joke. She’d been different since he’d arrived, all warm-toned and dewey, as if she’d opened herself up more, finally unclenching for the first time since... 

Since Peter’s parents died, and she’d been left with an orphan she’d never asked for. Since Ben died, and she’d been forced to take care of him alone... 

The idea of ripping away that happiness, of plunging her back into her old, desaturated life, working hour after hour with no reprieve just to provide for Peter... The selfishness made his stomach curdle, and so he’d decided, that if he had to suffer so his aunt could be happy, even for just one second, that he’d take anything that Sam could dish out. He owed her that much, right?

Blinking back into the present day, Peter could feel Principal Morita’s scrutinising gaze, searching his face for the marks that Peter had worked so hard to hide. His rapid healing was heaven sent in scenarios like this, turning bruises into memories and the lightning-like cuts into nothing more than flashes in the cloud-swamped sky of Peter’s mind, yet he still felt the wounds burning as though they’d been branded into his skin, and as his principal narrowed his eyes at him, he was sure he was wearing them, like a neon sign, a map leading him to just the right conclusion…   
After what felt like a lifetime, though it had surely only been a few beats since Peter’s outburst, the older man opened his mouth to respond, and a cold fear stole into the teenager, ice flooding his veins as he loaded his excuses, like ammunition on his tongue, ready to defend, to protect. 

“Listen, Peter, I don’t know why he’s your emergency contact… But he did answer, and he agreed to come… And there’s no need to be embarrassed, I’m sure-“

Peter wasn’t sure if his sentence had continued after that. In fact, he wasn’t sure of anything, except the searing, full-body flush that surged across his skin, embarassment flooding his veins and overthrowing his senses. The door had swung open, not to reveal Sam’s tall, intimidating figure, but, instead, a man swathed in intimidatingly expensive clothes, eyes hidden behind slightly tinted sunglasses. A man that Peter knew all too well. Tony Stark. 

Every system in Peter’s body felt as though it was rapidly shutting down. Tony Stark was in his school, in his principal’s office... Because of him. The redness of his cheeks intensified as his mentor crossed the room lazily, a slight smirk painted on his face as he dropped into the seat next to Peter, as though everything about this situation was entirely normal. 

“Ah, Mr. Stark, thank you for-“

“What are you doing here?”

Principal Morita’s affronted expression following his cut-off greeting went entirely unnoticed by Peter, who’s eyes were fixed almost angrily on his mentor. Tony, who was leaning back in his chair, sunglasses still concealing any real hint towards his true headspace, let all four legs drop back to the floor with a conclusive thud. He stayed silent for a moment, rubbing his left palm with his other hand contemplatingly. He looked tired, as though the lines on his face were threatening to sink so deep that they choked him, and Peter felt a sickening upsurge of guilt. As if Tony didn’t have enough to deal with, without worrying about a stupid kid that couldn’t even control his own emotions. He lowered his own head, shame pressing down against his shoulders, willing him to slump further, to lower himself until he was through the floor. He realised with a heavy heart that they were right - the voices that incessantly plagued his overcrowded mind, who screamed about the burden he’d become to his aunt, the burden he forced upon anybody he chose to love. Tony was one of those people now, he supposed, and it was too much. He was going to leave. He had to. 

“Well,” Tony began, forcing Peter’s head to turn at whiplash inducing speed, “when you get a call saying Peter Parker’s been in a fight and the school is seeking disciplinary action... it’s not exactly something to ignore.” 

A smile still played upon the older man’s lips, but Peter saw through it - saw the anger and the disappointment coating his words, saw every ounce of Peter’s perceived potential fading from his eyes drop by drop. Sam was right. Peter was no better than the place he’d come from - the barbed-wire fences of his old public school. He didn’t belong at Midtown, and soon he’d be back where he’d always been destined to return. Nothing more than another face in the crowd. 

“Well, that’s not exactly how we put it, Mr. Stark but-“ 

As Principal Morita began to speak, clearly desperate to reclaim at least some control of whatever situation was unfolding in his office, Tony’s head snapped up, and he straightened in his chair almost immediately. The change was so rapid, and so drastic, that Peter almost did a double-take. Gone was the lazy, devil-may-care posture and the friendly demeanour. Gone, too, were all traces of weariness visible to the eyes of an onlooker. In an instant, he was Tony Stark in his entirety - strong, unforgiving and, apparently, angry as hell. Peter watched on, a mixture of confusion and fear churning uncomfortably in his stomach. The only other time he’d ever seen Tony this furious was that day when they’d stood far above New York city, the smoking remains of the water taxi slowly descending into the depths of the Hudson, having long since deposited its passengers on the shore. Peter shrunk back, remembering the way Tony’s voice had shaken, remembering how his mentor had taken Peter’s heart and dropped it to the concrete below, both of them watching as it had plummeted, shattering violently against the harsh streets. Peter had wanted to follow it. Grimacing, he felt a weak and fragile armour attempt to curl its way around his chest, preparing him for the worst that he knew was coming. 

“No.” Tony snarled, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristic note of anger. He raised a quavering finger, pointing it at Principal Morita, who looked as if he were resisting the urge to flinch under Tony’s stony gaze. “You told me, that this kid had been in a fight.” 

As he spoke, Tony reached a hand out, clamping it around Peter’s shoulder with a staggering intensity. The force of the unexpected contact rang through Peter like the sound of a gong, reverberating off his bones and filling him with a cold, hard fear, as the bruises on his arms and the blossoming ache in his ribs flared against it. He jerked, his body moving in lieu of his flailing brain, desperate to rid himself of the hand that clutched him. This never worked, he thought, chest picking up speed as his breathing hitched, Sam always held on, Peter was never strong enough...

That’s when his fearful eyes met brown ones. Brown. Soft, flecked with amber, and wide with concern. Peter swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut and flashing himself back to his present situation. Tony’s face was a wash with emotions - fear, worry and... Was that guilt? Principal Morita looked uncomfortably between the two, his expression all the evidence Peter needed to confirm that he’d just fucked up. Badly. 

“S-Sorry-“ Peter began, flicking his eyes sheepishly in Tony’s direction. The older man seemed to be mulling something over, his face grave, though seconds later, the expression was gone, and his typical “Stark” mask was fixed steadily back in place. 

“My bad, Pete,” he said briskly, with the air of a man eager to get back on topic, completely diffusing the severity of the past few seconds. The tidal wave of gratitude that washed over Peter was enough to force a lump into his throat, while warm tears pricked the corner of his eyes.

“As I was saying,” Tony continued, eyes glued once again on Principal Morita. “You call to tell me that Peter Parker - this Peter Parker, sitting beside me - started a fight in the middle of the hallway?! I mean, excuse me, but-“ 

He trailed off, as if expecting Principal Morita to interrupt him, to concede, admit this was all a big joke. But the man maintained a stony silence, his eyes hard as he stared Tony down. Guilt had its hands wrapped firmly around Peter’s heart, tightening steadily as he watched the man he admired defend him so willingly, so without a second thought. 

Tony seemed taken aback by Morita’s reticence. He turned his head to Peter, who fixed his red-rimmed eyes on the floor, bile rising in his throat. He was worthless. Tony had invested so much in him, given him everything he’d ever needed to succeed, and he’d ripped it to shreds. 

Sam really was the only father Peter deserved. 

“Peter...” 

Tony’s voice was so gentle that Peter almost forgot where he was, his heart blossoming against the softness of his name. Tony’s whole body was facing him now, and one hand brushed tentatively against the boy’s knee. Peter allowed his eyes to track upwards slowly, taking in the man in front of him. This wasn’t the proud businessman who was facing down Peter’s principal just seconds earlier, nor the flashy superhero that tore through the streets of New York. This was Tony - the man who always knew what music Peter was in the mood for, the who had spent hours carefully picking strands of polymer out of Peter’s hair after an unfortunate web-fluid malfunction, the man who always knew when to call, and when to be there to save him... 

Peter’s eyes met Tony’s with a sudden understanding, calling a ceasefire on the incessant war ground of his chest. The fear that pulled his skin tight across his bones slackened, and then dissipated altogether. Tony wasn’t here to fight him or to scold him... He was here to save him. 

Like he always was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... There she is!! Again, I need to apologise for any mistakes, repetitions, sloppy metaphors and all in all weak writing, as I can hardly see what I’m typing right now and my exhaustion is reaching new levels but for some reason i just REALLY WANTED you to have this chapter. I’d also like to apologise for leaving you in the dark a little bit (and even with the hint of a cliffhanger?) but i promise you’ll get your clear answers very soon !!
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don’t hesitate to leave a review down below with your thoughts/feelings/comments !!! Hearing your feedback is literally the only fuel I have and I appreciate it with everything in me!! And if you have any questions or you want to bully me into posting the next chapter (would be appreciated) feel free to hit me up at uxorcide.tumblr.com ! ANYWAYS i really hope you enjoyed this chapter!! let me know!! Until next time angels !!!


	6. red stained floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen.
> 
> An onslaught of apologies sat dormant behind Peter’s teeth, ready to be unloaded as soon as he and Tony reached the solitude of his car. Tony had saved him, and he deserved to know why he’d needed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back.
> 
> I am TRYING. I really am. Writing and creating has seemed so much harder recently and as a result, getting this chapter out has been nearly impossible, and I still can't say that it's even close to the standard of writing that I'd want it to be for you guys, but trust me, I know how it feels to be kept waiting by a fic you're invested in, and so many of you have told me in comments that you wait eagerly for this to be updated and that warms my heart!!!!! and the knowledge that I've kept you waiting for nearly a month makes me sad and I'm really sorry!!! 
> 
> That being said, though I wish this chapter was written a little better, i hope the fact that she is THICC makes up for the lack of posting !! Writing dialogue isn't exactly my strong point, but I did my best to make it as realistic as possible!! I rly hope you enjoy it !!!

He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen.

An onslaught of apologies sat dormant behind Peter’s teeth, ready to be unloaded as soon as he and Tony reached the solitude of his car. Tony had saved him, and he deserved to know why he’d needed to.

The walk to the car felt eternal. Peter allowed his eyes to be dragged downwards, gritting his teeth against Tony’s guiding hand as it found his shoulder, his mind racing to find all the ways that Tony’s touch differed from Sam’s, desperate to make it easier to accept. When Sam held him, he reminded himself, it felt as though his fingers were going to sink right through his skin - weaving themselves permanently into Peter’s body so he could never escape. Tony’s hand barely brushed the fabric of his sweatshirt, ghosting the top of his shoulder just enough to steer him towards the car. Tony’s touch wasn’t trapping him, it was setting him free.

As the car door slammed shut behind him, enveloping them in dead air, Peter felt the pressure in his chest swell uneasily. Tony sat behind the wheel, flicking the keys absently with one hand, but making no moves to put them in the ignition.

“So,” he said, his voice tinged with a brand of faux-indifference that Peter had only seen Tony fully master, “gonna tell me why you’ve been starting punch-ups in the schoolyard?"

A bell rang somewhere in the distance, injecting a sudden, screaming panic into Peter’s consciousness. As soon as the swell of blue and yellow broke through the glass double doors, Peter would be engulfed. He could already feel himself drowning, thrashing against their brutal onslaught, but Tony’s question hung in the air, persistent in its search, making it clear that Tony didn’t intend on hearing excuses.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter choked out, his voice strangled against the weight of his panic, “can we- can we not stay here? Please, I’ll talk- I’ll tell you- I just can’t…”

He expected Tony to argue, to spin his keys around his index finger and fix Peter with his trademarked smirk, insisting that the car wouldn’t move an inch until he got the answers he wanted. The dwindling army in Peter’s chest had been ready, armed with explanations and pleas, prepared to stand their ground against Tony Stark’s infamous stubbornness. Instead, he watched as the confusion in Tony’s eyes to melted into a soft, sombre recognition, and then he was jamming the key into the ignition and letting the car rumble to life. Peter watched out the back window as the sea of students seemed to gather in their wake, feeling the tightness in his chest ease up just slightly as he settled back into the leather of the car seat. Outside, Queens rushed past in a blur of brick and grey skies, growing steadily less tangible as Peter felt his mind begin to wander back, playing everything over and over like a flickering film reel.

The past two months had seen the world outside Peter’s windows growing steadily dimmer, as clouds, both literal and metaphorical, settled in his skies. Winter had well and truly seeped its way into the cracks of New York city, bringing with it long, biting nights and fleeting days filled with unforgiving grey light. Peter normally loved winter, relished in the idea of covering himself in woollen blankets with May and watching the world turn to ice outside their windows, shrouded by the golden glow of their self contained warmth. It was comforting, a silver reminder of Peter’s security - while the world turned to stone outside their window, Peter and May looked on. Safe.

But this winter was different. This winter, Peter saw grey ice crawling its way up his bedroom walls, as if Sam’s very presence were leaving his perceived sense of safety in a state of unbalance - like he’d left the door open. He was letting the cold in, Peter thought. May had never liked that.

She didn’t seem to mind it so much anymore, wrapped up in a sweater with Sam by her side. Peter supposed she just couldn’t feel the chill.

Instead, the aching cold spent its nights infesting Peter’s bones and turning his organs to brittle ice, as if the darkness that infested his walls was playing host to the biting frost that fought for residency in his bedroom, and he would wake every morning feeling his limbs growing ever heavier, weighed down by a chill that went so much deeper than the goosebumps peppering his skin. It As Sam’s visits increased, it got harder and harder to consider the possibility of getting out of bed in the morning, of facing the world in all of its intensity when he himself felt so goddamned tiny. The walls of his small bedroom absorbed his darkness, and with winter as a guide, began reflecting it in the small details that would never cease to make Peter’s shoulders sag. A layer of clothes lay strewn across his floor - calculated mess, helping to hide the dark blue memories woven into the shag carpet. The mirror that had once leaned against his wall had long since been turned around - Peter didn’t need to see the lashes and bruises that marred his skin to know they were there. They made enough noise on their own.

Peter was no stranger to fatigue. Even before Spiderman, he was rarely seen without dark circles accenting his eyes, or a dazed expression on his face. But this tiredness was different to the type he felt after a long night of studying, when the glare of his laptop screen would scorch his eyeballs open, or the physical weight that sunk into his limbs after a long night of rounds. This tiredness bloomed in his brain, spreading like a disease through his weary form. It infected his body first. His arms wouldn’t move right and his legs barely managed to carry him to the kitchen, and he woke up every night clutching his temples, longing for the anguish to end. But it wasn’t the physical pain that set this tiredness aside, it wasn’t the way that he felt at 3am when his bedroom swayed and Sam’s footsteps drummed down the hall. Playing victim to the biting darkness wasn’t new for him - he knew the way it’s jaws felt as they clamped around his throat, almost welcomed them as they silenced him, drinking in the tears that dropped from his chin. This was familiar.

Instead, it was the way he felt at lunch, with MJ and Ned pressing in on both sides, surrounded by honey-coloured smiles. Despite the thrum of chatter that enveloped him, Peter would stay silent, eyes dark, fixed on the floor, hoping that maybe, if he tried hard enough, he’d sink through the floor into a void of welcoming nothingness. It was the way that doing his laundry or reading a page of his textbook left him empty and worn out, as though all of his energy had been spent on such ridiculous, meanial tasks. Yes, Peter Parker and tiredness may have been old friends, but this exhaustion was a new demon, one that he didn’t have the energy to face.

The new, exhausted Peter Parker was nobody’s friend. He frustrated everyone that the old him may have known - constantly finding himself in disagreements without even fully remembering what he’d done wrong. Even Ned, who’s neverending patience had remained a much needed break in Peter’s overcast sky, found himself lapsing into a defeated silence at the lunch table, the effort of fighting a losing battle proving too exhausting a task. Peter felt his friends silence like an anchor, coiling ropes around his ankle and threatening to drag him through the floor, yet his mouth remained firmly shut each afternoon, while he and the flecked surface of the cafeteria table became all too acquainted, as he kept his eyes fixed downwards, studying every knick and blemish, learning every secret the cheap plastic could possibly boast. Eyes down was safe. Eyes down and studying the table, where he couldn’t make anybody angry.

Peter winced at the memory. He couldn’t even do that right.

“Come on man, you do know how scary this is, right?” Ned’s voice floated into his memory, timid and pleading as he flicked his eyes toward a small, discoloured droplet that he thought might have once been ketchup.

“I’m sorry, Ned, I know- I just-“

The sound of his own voice did nothing to quell the writhing in his gut. In fact, he only felt his stomach twist tighter at the sound of that flat, robotic drone that sounded nothing like Peter Parker, yet seemed to be all the more reflective of him as the days went on.

“What’s wrong Petey?”

A new shade of contempt, followed by an intense and overwhelming tiredness flashed across Peter’s mind as a trenchant voice had cut across his own, the jeer ringing through the eerily silent cafeteria as if it had been yelled. He raised his head, bones heavy, to stare in Flash’s direction, watching helplessly as the boy strutted towards where, a confusing mix of anger and excitement twisting on his narrow face. Peter remembered the way he’d walked, almost with a spring in his step, and remembered the low buzz that had consumed his mind as Ned’s pleading fell on his deaf ears. Flash was sauntering toward him, skipping… Almost… Limping.

And then, all of a sudden, it hadn’t been Flash Thomson anymore. The stiff plastic of the cafeteria bench melted into dark blue shag carpet, and the fluorescent lighting faded into the soft 3am glow of an alarm clock with green letters, and Peter had found himself thrust right back into the waking nightmare he tried so desperately to keep himself from every night. Gone were his laughing peers and the apple he’d been mindlessly dissecting, and gone was his best friend, who had, until a second ago, stood unflinchingly by his side. Peter was entirely, undeniably alone. Just like he was every time.

Well. Not entirely.

He’d raised his head, eyes fixed on the spot where Flash Thomson had been, and his nightmare had taken hold. Sam had been rushing towards him, his mouth moving to make out words that Peter had no real hope of hearing. He’d glanced desperately around, trying to clutch onto the memory of his cafeteria. He’d been safe, he’d been at school… How had Sam found him here? The darkness seeping from those black-hole irises reached their heavy hands out to Peter, itching to crush him between their strong, unyielding fingers. A thrill of fear coursed through his veins as Sam drew nearer, those calloused fingers reaching out to grip his shoulder… To drag him to the floor…

_Fight back._ Peter’s mind had whispered, injecting the idea like a virus in his rushing mind.

_It never works._ He pushed back, frustration flooding his thoughts. Every time Sam caught Peter's arm, every time his iron grip didn’t budge against his struggling, Peter felt his faith in his powers waning, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

_Fight back._

Biting back a groan, Peter had felt the sheer willpower taking hold of his senses, putting the weight of all his fear and frustration into his swing. He would fight. He would show the voices in his head. It never worked.

Except it did.

As he felt his fist connect with Sam’s face, Peter’s head had broken the top of the water with an explosion of sound so intense that Peter thought his spider senses were going to rip his eardrums apart. The whispered musings of spectators piled on top of each other as Sam’s screams ricocheted harrowingly off the walls… Except his screams were… Wrong. They were high pitched and youthful, and Peter almost heard himself in their desperation… Sam couldn’t make a sound like that, could he? Had Peter done that?

“Peter? Peter? What the fuck- _Peter!_ ”

It had been Ned’s voice that delivered the final blow, slamming him violently back into reality. A reality where he stood, blinking rapidly, above a snivelling, bleeding Flash Thompson. A reality where he was trapped, surrounded by a ring of gawking high school students with shadows of fear in their eyes. A blind hatred bloomed in Peter’s chest at the memory of them - all craning their necks, trying to get a glimpse of the action, brimming with fear, confusion and… Excitement. Not a sick kind of excitement, nor one that most people could even identify at first glance. But Peter knew it - the sense of anticipation and rush of adrenaline that could only be associated with an abnormal and dramatic scene such as this. They weren’t happy, but he could identify the particular brand of gratification they were experiencing. He was a car crash. A wreck of twisted metal and screaming loved ones burning on the freeway for everyone to see. He was going up in flames, all rescue missions failed, and the students of Midtown High had their faces pressed to the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the debris. He hated them - hated the way they passed in the night, treating him as nothing but an interesting blemish on the way to their destination. He hated the way they’d go home tonight and wrap themselves in the comforts of their families, maybe mentioning him in passing, like it was a dinner table anecdote, like they weren’t watching his world rip apart.

Even now, the memory of his classmates’ faces made Peter’s skin crawl. He hadn’t noticed at the time, just how dark their expressions had been, or how quickly people pulled away when he moved towards them.

_Afraid_. They were afraid of him.

Something Sam had once said rushed into the forefront of his mind, and it was all Peter could do not to flinch in the car seat next to Tony.

_“You don’t get it, do you Peter? You still think I’m the villain here… You don’t even see how dangerous spoiled little brats like can be…”_

Peter was dangerous. He’d watched Flash writhe and scream, seen the droplets of blood staining the pale linoleum. Peter’s stomach turned over as he remembered the way that the deep crimson had contrasted the almost surgical cafeteria floor, but he closed his eyes against the nausea. Sam was right. Peter deserved punishment. His ribs throbbed painfully, almost as if they were reminding him that he had, at least, got what he’d deserved. He didn’t remember how he’d got on the floor, or how Ned had been ripped from his side - all he remembered was the way he’d leaned into the kick as Flash had towered above him, finishing the fight Peter had started, while his mind pounded one resounding sentence into his consciousness.

_You deserve it._

Peter wasn’t sure how long he’d spent tangled within his own memories, but as he blinked back into the present moment, he noted that the stony New York landscape had given way to a vast, stretching emptiness - fields reaching out towards the horizon and being engulfed by it. The grey clouds that had provided a backdrop for Peter's gloom in the schoolyard that morning had given way, relinquishing the onslaught of rain and sending it down to wash the city clean. Peter knew it wouldn't work on him.

“Tony? Where are we going?”

The way Tony started slightly at his voice was all the evidence Peter needed to confirm that it had been a while since he’d last spoken.

“Upstate.” Tony replied simply, his concerned eyes flicking over to Peter, almost expectantly.

Normally, the idea of visiting the Avengers compound would’ve had Peter bouncing off the walls, and it was a testament to the boy’s current state of mind that all he could manage was a light shrug and a tiny “oh.”

“I’ve got some crash testing to do with the new armour, I thought you might be interested in helping out.” Tony tested, aching to see a smile split the younger boy’s face.

“Yeah, I can help.” Peter replied, his voice not changing an octave. “I mean, if you need.”

If you’d asked him yesterday, Peter would’ve sworn up and down that there was nothing that the human mind could come up with that would beat the feeling of helping Tony crash test elements for a new suit. Some of his best memories involved sudden explosions, dishevelled hair and unnecessary amounts of fire extinguisher (courtesy of DUM-E, who Tony swore was doing it on purpose at this point). The memories were tinged with laughter and the nervous, giddy sense of relief that came after a particularly exciting close call, and Peter felt something turn over in his heart whenever he recalled them.

But this Peter Parker didn’t deserve them. This Peter Parker was a black hole, and those memories weren’t something he was going to lose to the waiting void. His chest twisted painfully once more, as he realised that he couldn’t allow himself to be drenched in the light of Tony’s lab, not while the memory of the blood dripping down Flash’s chin stayed locked into his brain. Peter was infected, brimming with darkness that could be passed on with even the lightest of touches. And he refused to touch the lab, the only haven he had left from the screaming wind.

“Actually… Mr. Stark… I’m really tired-“

“I’m gonna stop you there, kid.” Tony cut in, before Peter’s half-formed escape route could find its way.

“Listen, I was gonna do the whole ‘act casual until he’s ready to open up’ deal, but I can’t get this out of my head, Pete, it’s eating me up here.”

Peter turned to him, seeing, for the first time, how undeniably exhausted he looked.

“I mean,” he continued, “fighting at school? That’s not you. I saw that Flash kid, he looked… He looked pretty bad…”

Tony’s words were fighting against the thickness in his throat, but each one still carried enough strength behind them that, had Peter been standing, he was sure they would’ve knocked him to the ground.

“I know,” was all he could manage to say, before the air between them lapsed into an uncomfortable silence once again.

Peter let the quiet gnaw on his skin as he felt the shame flowing through him as if he’d been injected with a poison. It coursed through his veins, burning and pulling at them, filling him with a kind of pain that he wished didn’t feel so familiar. It was the feeling that plagued him when he’d messed up on the ferry, the feeling that had locked its hand around his neck as soon as Tony had left, taking Peter’s Spiderman suit with him. It had been foreign then, an agonising misery that tied his hands in knots at night but still let him cry on its shoulder when things got bad. And it was into this new, unfamiliar darkness that Peter would repeat what he knew in his heart - that he was a disappointment, that nothing he did would ever be enough, that he would never make things right. Since Sam, the darkness had become another regular in Peter’s mind, and Peter made room for it now, as it settled in, rolling its eyes at the fresh disappointment that Peter had reaped.

“Have I ever told you about my old man?”

Tony’s words cut through the silence as if he’d screamed them, causing Peter’s head to snap around to face his mentor. The older man had one hand on the wheel, while the other tapped idly against the gear stick. His eyes were fixed on the road, giving no indication that he’d just broken the near 10 minute long silence that had been ready to wrap its coils around Peter’s neck. Still, his question hung in the air, hovering above him like an obnoxious hazard sign, warning him of dangers to come. Weakly, and questioning what other option he had, Peter took the plunge.

“I think you and I both know the answer to that question.” He rasped, all of his intended humour clouded by the complete apprehension that soaked his response.

Nevertheless, Tony chuckled fondly, turning his head towards Peter for a split second, before settling his eyes back on the road sprawling ahead of them.

“Yeah, not exactly my fondest conversation topic...” he trailed off for a moment, as if allowing himself to be led back into the thick fog of his memories. Peter felt a twinge of guilt.

“You know, Mr Stark, you don’t have to-“

“Shut up, kid.”

Though there was no malice in Tony’s words, there was enough conviction to stop Peter in his tracks. He sat back against the seat, tugging absently on a loose thread that was dangling off his fraying jeans.

“You just have to let me get this out, okay? I’m not too great at the whole touchy-feely, sit in a circle and sing campfire songs type deal, so just-“

He broke off, motioning something that Peter assumed was meant to say “zip it” with his free hand. Peter nodded, keeping his eyes fixed loosely on the road in front of him, determined to avoid making eye contact with his mentor. His stomach churned slightly at Tony’s words, the promise of a “touchy-feely” conversation with the man he’d looked up to for most of his life causing a whirlwind of emotions to rage inside of him. On one hand, he felt a new and even more intense sense of affection towards the older man, and warmth filled his whole body at the notion of Tony feeling comfortable enough to open up to him. On the other, however, the idea of seeing him vulnerable, of being subjected to, by the look on Tony’s face, a tirade of dark and powerful memories, sat heavy on Peter’s chest. What was the right way to react to something like that? What should he say? What should he do? The questions screamed inside his head, each one competing to be louder than the last, and each one putting Peter more on edge. He faced Tony, all but shaking under the weight of his bursting thoughts, both willing him to begin and wishing he never would.

“Okay, can you relax? C’mon, I can hear your overthinking from here…”

Tony’s voice rang through the car, and Peter found himself blinking in utter confusion. His mentor’s voice sounded... Normal. There was no daunting undertone, or overbearing seriousness, no booming echo that punctuated the weight of what he was about to say. He was just... Tony.

“I just wanna… Tell you about something. Have a conversation. Okay? No big deal."

It was same dry tone, the same light jokes... The same man. Slowly, Peter felt the weight of each question drop from his shoulders. A conversation. In the car. With his friend. He could do that. No big deal.

“Better.” Tony chimed approvingly, as Peter let out a long breath he hadn’t been aware he‘d been holding.

“Anyway, like I was saying, my dad and I... Let’s just say we, uh, fell out a lot...”

Peter tried to ignore the thrill of fear that shot through his body, working instead on keeping his breathing steady. Tony couldn’t know... He’d been careful... This story had to be a coincidence... His senses screamed at him to look for a way out, but the car was hurtling through the countryside now, and there was nowhere for Peter to go, nowhere to run...

“And, uh, well, sometimes we’d fall out... Hard. You know?”

Peter did. He did know. He felt the all-familiar claws of his confession scaling its way up the walls of his throat, and he swallowed against it. He couldn’t. He forced his mind’s eye to focus on the way May’s cheeks looked when she smiled, and the way her laugh reverberated off the kitchen walls when Sam made a joke she couldn’t resist, and felt his resolve strengthen. His silence was for her.

“It was a combination of things, I guess,” Tony continued, either oblivious to Peter’s internal turmoil, or selectively choosing to ignore it. Either way, Peter was grateful.

“I was... A handful. Spoiled - who would’ve guessed? And not a huge fan of authority...” A faint smile turned up the corners of Tony’s mouth, but his eyes remained dull, as if the force of the memories had slammed doors behind them.

“Then he shipped me off to boarding school and I waved goodbye... And I was thinking _this is it,_ I’m finally gonna be free, I can do whatever the hell I want...”

He scoffed, and Peter trained his apprehensive eyes on his mentor’s face. Something in Tony’s expression made him uneasy, like he could feel the shadow lingering behind the man’s words, waiting to be unleashed.

“First week in, I get sent to the principal’s office.” Tony recounted, letting out a huff of air that could have been interpreted as a laugh, if the atmosphere hadn’t been thick with the thrum of tension.

“I don’t even know what for anymore, y’know... That’s the funny thing. One of the worst memories of my life... And I cant even remember it right.”

“I thought I’d be okay, though, didn’t think that much of it... I walked in there all high and mighty, shirt untucked, hands in my pockets. I thought I was untouchable. There was nothing they could’ve done that would match anything my old man could dish out...”

Tony took a deep breath, and Peter wasn’t sure he would’ve needed super-hearing to pick up the way it caught in his throat. His own throat was screaming against the force of all his unspoken words, his silence fighting a losing battle as Tony ploughed determinedly onwards.

“Except uh... fly him out, apparently.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open slightly and Tony turned to him, face twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace.

“Yeah.” He laughed, his tone dry. “I didn’t see it coming either but lemme tell you... He let me have it. Right there in the office, in front of the dean like it was nothing...”

The older man took another breath in, and his chest heaved as if it were the most difficult thing he’d ever done.

“I’m never gonna forget the look in his eyes, yknow? Just plain rage... It was like everything he’d ever done, everything I’d ever swept under the rug because it wasn’t that bad... Just tumbled out.”

Peter felt his heart filling his throat, pressing uncomfortably against the raw wounds left by the words he couldn’t say. Tony’s memories were filling the car, clashing violently with the warm air as the space between the two became all the more prominent. However, this time Tony’s voice didn’t seem to be piercing the fugue. Instead he sat with his eyes fixed on the horizon, both hands tight against the steering wheel as opposed to his regular one-handed, casual drape.

“But surely...” Peter began, forcing the words out of his ragged throat. “Surely your dean... I mean, he did something right?”

The question dropped from his lips, landing lamely on the seat in front of him. Almost immediately, he felt the car swerve, pulling over to the side of the road with a violent jerk. The engine thrummed against the hammering rain, yet Peter had never felt more consumed by a silence. Tony’s silence. Why did he ask that? How stupid could he be? He’d had to go and open his mouth, had to push it too far...

“Mr Stark?” Peter squeaked, his voice coming out as small as he felt. “I-I’m sorry, you don’t have to-“ Tony jumped at Peter’s words, looking at him as though he was seeing him for the first time. His tight expression crumpled as he met the younger boy’s eyes and a long, slow sigh blew past his lips.

“No, kid, uh-“ his voice sounded strangled, and Peter wondered, with a heavy heart, if Tony had words that left claw-marks in his throat as well.

“I’m sorry, I... Shouldn’t have... It’s just hard to focus sometimes when they-“

He broke off, just as realisation began to creep into Peter’s consciousness. Images of Tony swept through his memory - Tony crouched beside him, a steady hand on his knee as he felt the cold tile sucking the warmth out of his body... Tony knowing exactly what to do, what to say...

_“We all get ‘em. It sucks.”_

The words floated to the surface of Peter’s thoughts, and, swallowing the doubt rising in his chest, he turned to look at his friend. He could hear Tony’s breathing, ragged and gasping, snatching for air at random intervals and causing his chest to rise and fall irregularly. His knuckles were bone-white against the dark leather of the steering wheel, accented with flecks of red as he held tightly onto it, clutching it like it was the only thing keeping him in his seat. Peter screwed up his eyes against the onslaught of emotion that threatened to incapacitate him at the sight of his mentor - the great, strong Tony Stark, so powerless.

“A-are you-“ Peter hesitated, but Tony’s eyes found him, boring into him so desperately that he balled up his fists and continued. “Are you having a panic attack, Tony?”

At Peter’s words, Tony swallowed, raising both of his shaking hands from the steering wheel and staring at them intensely, opening and closing them a few times before letting them drop back down with a thud that echoed painfully around the silent car. Then, after a few beats, he exhaled loudly and turned back to Peter, who’s wide-eyed stare was threatening to consume his entire, pale face.

“Not a bad one,” he breathed, his voice still uneven. “Although I do think the rest of this conversation might be better suited for a, uh, stationary vehicle...”

He managed a weak laugh, one which Peter eagerly returned.

“To answer your question, yeah, the dean could’ve said something. Probably should have... But I guess if you throw enough money at them, anyone would keep their mouths shut.”

Tony continued as if nothing had happened, but Peter couldn’t help but notice that the light behind his eyes had dulled even more, and a darkness that he could never hope to identify swum threateningly below their surface.

“Anyway… After he was done I went back to my room, licked my wounds, went to bed… I’m not sure what my plan was… I guess I just- I just wanted to pretend it never happened, you know?”

Peter did know. His throat stung. He swallowed the words like bile once more.

“But obviously, I couldn’t exactly do that with a big shining black eye, now could I? I knew people would ask questions, and as much as it may surprise you to hear, kid, I really wasn’t too hot on the idea of being the centre of attention… At least not in that particular situation.”

Again, Tony trailed off, wrinkling his nose a little as memories flooded their way to the surface, and the melodic thrumming of the rain against the car roof rushed to fill the space where his words had been.

“What did you do?” Peter asked, in a voice barely a shade above a whisper. His heart was still acting on behalf of his mind, sending out words he’d had no intention of saying.

Tony laughed wryly, rubbing his palm with his free hand again.

“The next day I marched down to the cafeteria and picked a fight with the biggest guy in there. It was a boarding school you know… Hot-headed young teenagers, easy to provoke… I don’t even think he noticed the black eye before he started beating the shit out of me…”

Peter winced, and Tony’s face twitched slightly. Peter’s empathy would never fail to make his heart soften - especially when it was directed towards him.

“Don’t worry, I gave just as good as I got. Well, almost… Anyway, after that, I wasn’t the kid who’d crawled back to his room with his tail between his legs after his dad… Well, you know… I was the kid who’d pissed off the biggest, baddest guy in school and lived to tell about it… And had a pretty impressive black eye to prove it.”

Tony swallowed.

“It was great for a while, and having ‘rebel’ status wasn’t bad for my social life but… It was hard to balance when I was scared shitless that I’d step over the line again, you know? That one day I’d walk into that office and the dean wouldn’t be there to keep him from… I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t pretty. And it wasn’t a way to live...”

As Tony had drawn to a close, the storm ripping through the sky had opened up, and a jet of lightning had crashed into a distant field, filling the car with electric blue light. In his head, Peter could see the smouldering scorch mark it left in its wake - a scar upon an otherwise unscathed surface, a burn that would never fully fade. Peter knew what was coming, had known it since Tony had started speaking. His throat felt ragged, ripped raw by all the confessions he vowed he’d never make, as Tony’s story had only strengthened their resolve. He wanted to soothe it, to let the words flow out like warm honey and heal the wounds they’d created. He wanted to pour everything out into the dead air and feel himself go limp against the cool leather seats. He wanted Tony to wrap his arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be okay, and he wanted to close his eyes and allow himself to be swept up by the symphony of the rain against the windshield, as Tony drove to Sam’s apartment- Peter’s apartment, and let the sun shine through it once more.

An echoing roar of thunder rolled menacingly through the sky, the clouds following it as they swirled tauntingly overhead. Peter got the message. Silence was better than the waiting storm.

“Listen, Pete, I don’t want to make any assumptions here-“

“Then don’t.” Peter cut Tony off before his sentence could gather any weight. He couldn’t do this, he needed to get out.

“Kid, _please_ -“ Tony’s voice was strained now, but Peter could hardly hear it over the hammering of his own heartbeat.

“Listen, Flash is just a dick, okay? He picks on me and Ned like, every day, and to be honest, I was just getting sick of listening to his stupid voice, so I punched him.”

“And then you kept punching him? And you didn’t stop until six kids ripped you off him?”

Again, Peter felt a wince twist his features. How much did Tony know?

“Peter. You’re really scaring me here," Tony whispered after a beat of silence.

Peter was sure he could hear the echo of his heartstrings snapping reverberating off the walls of his chest, as the broken way Tony said his name fully hit home. Tony Stark would always save him. He had when he was younger. He could now.

May laughing. Sam dusting icing sugar onto her lemon pancakes.

The smell of lemon dish soap, Sam’s hand against his throat, the way his bruises looked under the bathroom light.

The sound of draining bathwater, leftover bubbles in the tub the next morning.

What May could gain, and what Peter could take away.

What Peter was losing, and what Tony could help him save.

With a heavy sigh that brushed away all other memories, Peter pushed words around his mouth, feeling the excuses that coated his tongue. He could let them fall, just as he always did… Or he could wash them away - let the truth take over and drag all the lies out with it.

Fixing his eyes on the edge of Tony’s shirt, Peter let his lips drop open.

And he began to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another sort-of cliffhanger??? Except this time I'm gonna try and half-heartedly promise you again that I won't take 47847 years to upload a new chapter??? (Here's hoping xx)
> 
> Please please please comment and let me know what you thought!!! As always, comments and the knowledge that there are people invested in what I'm writing are sometimes my only motivators to keep going, so shoutout to you guys!!! And speaking of comments, I want to ask you guys for your opinion! I want to know how... Invested... You guys are in the idea of a "happy ending" to this story... I have an idea for a possible follow-up fic that could be really interesting, but would involve ending this story on a bit of a bleak cliffhanger. Of course, if you guys really want this one to be wrapped up all neat, I can adapt the sequel idea into an entirely different fic!! But I want to know what you'd want to see, so please let me know!!
> 
> Sorry the notes have been super long on this one, following the theme of the chapter I guess, but anyway, I really really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Always hurts my heart to write some "painfully-vulnerable Tony Stark", but I hope it was worth it! I'm gonna shut up now. Until the next time, (which will hopefully be a lot sooner), and please remember if you have anything you wanna ask or say you can hit me up at uxorcide.tumblr.com and I promise I'll reply!!! Thanks for reading okay bye!!!!


	8. a trial by fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t until dusk began climbing into the clouds that the too-sweet air had begun to taste sour on Tony’s tongue. His mother’s eyes started to drift to the glass in Howard’s hand, a weariness behind her pupils that Tony had wished he could rip from them forever. And as her face had crumpled further with every sip his father took, Tony felt anger corroding the illusion he’d allowed to conceal the cold reality that had then slammed full force into his bones, as he'd turned to his father with embers igniting in his eyes. If his father wanted fire, he had thought, then Tony was going to be the one to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God????? A chapter???? and it HASN'T been six months????? .... Don't pinch yourselves.... I promise it's still me... 
> 
> And, okay, I know you're all DESPERATE to see Peter opening up to Tony and I'm sorry to be so CRUEL but that conversation is proving to be a little bit more of a challenge to write than I anticipated, SO I started writing a short flashback scene to move things along and... well... It's 3000 words now. SO. Please bear with me, I promise your much needed release IS COMING. Very soon!!!!! 
> 
> Also, I wanted to take the time to be genuine for a second, and thank you guys for all of your support - last week this story got to 10,000 hits. Ten THOUSAND. I can't even explain to you all how deeply meaningful that is to me... (I know some of y'all may think I'm good with words but trust me, when it comes to trying to express genuine emotion, I am illiterate) so let me just say this - there are two things in my life that have been a constant for me through thick and thin. The first is, obviously, Marvel, and the second is writing. So, when I finally decided to combine the two and put work out there for everyone to see.... I was literally terrified. And you guys took this fic and you loved it, you appreciated it and you validated it - and by extension, you've loved, appreciated and validated ME. SO i just want to say thank you for every single one of you for reading, commenting, and just supporting me in general. Not to be overly sentimental but... It means the world. It really does.
> 
> Ahem. Anyway. Now that that's out of the way, please enjoy this (probably frustrating) chapter! Love you all x

The world had been fading into an icy and unforgiving silver, on the last night Tony Stark had ever spent at home. He remembered so clearly the way the bare arms of the tree outside his window had seemed to reach toward the sky, fingers stretching for a handhold, only to be left with fistfuls of ashen cloud and a pitiless chill. Tony had never been one for literature, but he’d spent many a night regarding the gathering snow, considering just how poetic it was to be burying his old life under a mountain of ice. His bags had been packed since the first frost had coiled itself around the branches of the beech tree that cut through the moonlight seeping into his bedroom - shirts folded uncharacteristically neatly, his entire life zipped up tightly. The sight of them, stowed away in his wardrobe, made Tony reflect on just how much of his life he’d spent in boxes - always packed and ready to move on at a moment’s notice. He recalled his shelves in his boarding school dorm, the way the dark stained wood had looked under the thick layer of dust that gathered in the absence of clothes. The memory brought a sort of fuzziness into the teenagers brain, as he cast his eyes around the bedroom he’d called his own for 17 years.

Every square inch of the place had seemed to reek of teenage rebellion - as though Tony had made a point of papering the walls with everything under the sun that had the potential to piss of his father. Therefore, Tony wasn’t sure if he’d felt more relieved or frustrated that the posters of scantily clad women and anti-governmental slogans had fallen time and time again in front of blind eyes, clouded over with an agonising apathy, the sting of which almost surpassed that of an open hand on his skin. Flinching, Tony had thought back to all the times he’d sat, turning a thumbtack between his forefinger and thumb, waiting with a bitten lip to see if Howard would take this particular bait, if this poster would be the one to finally break him, to turn his attention to his son… For once in his life…

_Pathetic_. Tony had reflected, giving the duffel bag at his feet a half-hearted kick.

Eventually, his eyes had came to rest on a small black box, which lay nestled amongst the fibres of his rug. He'd swallowed a weighted sigh, feeling his features contort into an involuntary contempt, the memories surrounding the deceptively significant object rushing like a storming army to the forefront of his mind, rallying waves of intense emotion and nausea in an effort to convince them to join the breach on Tony’s consciousness. And as black spots had danced tantalisingly in the corners of his vision, forcing him to drop back down onto the bed, he'd had to admit that they’d succeeded.

Inside the box, Tony knew, a pair of silver cufflinks had sat marinated in the echoes of the night he’d received them, still trapped within the heavy darkness of the velvet walls. If he'd stared at it for long enough, he'd been sure he could still hear the shouts as they ricocheted through the sprawling hallways of the Stark mansion, still feel his father’s insults like an itch just below his skin, a constant reminder of his inadequacy he’d known he’d never quite be able to quell.

He'd dragged his eyes upwards, perhaps a little too eagerly, discarding the box, instead choosing to focus on a desk calendar, still displaying the deep orange hues of its October page, despite the fact that, by then, the world had been making a slow and languid crawl into a stony December. Tony hadn’t had the foresight to change it - every time he tried he’d remind himself of the luggage sitting idle in his closet, and tell himself that today was the day, that there would be need to count the months anymore.

His eyes latched onto a date where, scrawled in scarlet ink, were the words “17th birthday”. He’d written them lazily, almost as a joke (because, really, who needs a reminder for their own birthday), but since the ill-fated night, they’d become somewhat of a makeshift gravestone for what little innocence he’d had left. The letters, loose and ill-printed, gleaming deep red against the broken moonlight, acted as both death sentence and eulogy - promising something dire while at the same time serving as a reminder for it. The remnants of Tony’s childhood sat below them, bent at awkward angles and littered with cracks that deemed them beyond repair.

The shield that harboured what remained of Tony’s innocence had become close to impenetrable over the years, withstanding nearly anything his father could dish out in an attempt to breach it. He’d been no stranger to his fathers’ rage - Howard Stark’s fluctuating temper was hardly an unfamiliar concept in the tangle of Tony’s life. He knew the feeling of his father’s bare fist on his skin so well that he could feel it if he kept his eyes closed too long at night - a violent ghost that ensured that he couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t sleep, not while the fists that haunted him lay dormant only two doorways down. But, despite the tired eyes and aching muscles, the shadows of a lost night’s sleep, Tony had withstood it. The teenager had lifted himself out of bed every morning, slipping into the only protection he knew - the facade of a happy son, a boy completely content with the life he’d been so fortunately born into.

Tony Stark may not have been Iron Man until years down the line, but he’d been wearing armour all his life.

Tony had always assumed that, one day, his self-made protection may not be enough, but he’d never seen the end coming like this. He’d pictured it time and time again - a whirlwind of fists, a drunken rage that burned so hot that Tony didn’t have the time to flee, the flames of his father’s contempt curling angrily around his body while he could do nothing but allow himself to be consumed by the inferno. That’s how he’d known it would come… How he’d thought it would come. With heat, and violence. With melting skin and screams that carried into the rolling hills and dissipated into the waiting sky. Loud, angry and final.

In hindsight, Tony had thought, casting a bitter gaze around his bedroom as the setting sun drained the grey light from his walls, it had been an immature assumption, bred directly from the fear of his father that lay screaming below the surface of his consciousness. He’d assumed that the culmination of his relationship with his father would come violently, because violence was all he’d ever known from him. Violence or silence. To this day, Tony still couldn’t decide which was worse.

His seventeenth birthday, however, had been neither. The air had been warm, soaking in the last of the suns’ golden rays, as he’d sat at the dinner table, joined by his parents in a rare reminder that he still had two. His mother had smiled at him over her roast lamb, and his father had even gone as far as to ask him about his day. It had been as close to domesticity as the Starks had ever seemed to want to veer and Tony, despite himself, allowed the child inside him, pining for a family, to lean into the fantasy. He’d laughed at every joke his father told, even went so far as pretending to be interested in the story of the day Steve Rogers became Captain America as he retold it wistfully, with the misty expression that always accompanied his stories of “the good old days”.

_"Before I was born. Before I fucked all of that up.”_ Tony had found himself thinking, before pushing the thought aside and reaching for another helping of potatoes.

That’s when they’d given him the cufflinks… Or, more specifically, Jarvis had presented them to him under the smiling eyes of his mother, while Howard watched with only a foreign half interest.

“Jarvis was the one who got them engraved,” Howard provided, as Tony had turned a cufflink over in his hands, revealing a small “A.S.” etched intricately into the corner.

“Seemed a shame to ruin something so… Perfectly simplistic… But sentiment’s good too, I suppose.”

The way he’d finished his sentence, with a shark-like smile that split his ageing face in two, had suggested to Tony that what he’d said was supposed to be a joke. Tony hadn’t laughed. Later, as he reflected on the carnage that the night would bear, he thought that that might have been his first mistake.

It wasn’t until dusk began climbing into the clouds that the too-sweet air had begun to taste sour on Tony’s tongue. His mother’s eyes started to drift to the glass in Howard’s hand, a weariness behind her pupils that Tony had wished he could rip from them forever. And as her face had crumpled further with every sip his father took, Tony felt anger corroding the illusion he’d allowed to conceal the cold reality that had then slammed full force into his bones, as he'd turned to his father with embers igniting in his eyes. If his father wanted fire, he had thought, then Tony was going to be the one to give it to him.

As Tony approached, followed by the tired eyes of his mother, still lingering behind her dessert, Howard’s hand had drifted lazily up to greet him.

“Anthony,” he’d mumbled, his loose tongue carrying the unmistakable slur of a drunken man.

The raised hand waved, as though beckoning his son towards the armchair opposite him. Tony remembered the way that apprehension had fizzed like distant warning bells in the back of his skull, and even in recollection, he found himself screaming through the fog, begging himself to turn around, to go back to his mother, to his bedroom… Anything…

Instead, he’d taken his seat, only slightly perturbed by the way the leather had seemed to tighten under his weight, as if coiled with building tension.

“Good birthday, son?” Howard had asked, words clipped and hazy against the fugue of his whisky.

“Uh…” Tony had cast a furtive look back at his mother, hoping to reignite some of the anger that had willed him to approach the man, but had found her head bowed in feigned indifference, her entire posture screaming at him to disengage, to retreat.

_“It isn’t worth it,”_ she’d told him once, trying to quell his 8 year old rage after his father had crushed a small red car that Tony had cherished, and immediately moved to chastise the young boy for leaving his stuff lying around. Tony had been furious, desperately protesting that it hadn’t been his fault, that he’d only left it there for half a second…

_“Howa- Dad has a short temper sometimes,”_ his mother had whispered, her voice soothing, _“you just have to stand back, let it run its course… It’s always manageable."_

It wasn’t until he was far older that Tony had come to wonder just how often his mother had needed to “manage” Howard’s rage.

“It’s been…”

_“Stand back… Let it run its course…”_

“It’s been really good, dad. Thanks.”

Tony had shifted in his chair, feeling ten years younger under the scrutinising glare Howard shot in his direction.

“Seventeen, huh?” Howard mused, and the patronising edge to his voice had been enough Tony’s rage reignite all over again.

“Big year… Bet you feel pretty grown up, huh?”

Tony hadn't. He’d felt how small, smaller than he had in a long time, as though every part of him was trying to shrink as far away from his father as possible, to become as tiny and insignificant as Howard's towering, aggressive form made him feel.

“Yeah, I guess.” Tony's answer had come out breathy, almost like a laugh.

“You _guess_?” Howard had implored, his lips twisting upwards.

“Jesus, are you ever sure of anything?”

_"I’m sure that one day soon I’m gonna pack my bags and leave. I’m sure that I’m gonna go out into the world and make something of myself. I’m sure I’m gonna be a better man than you could ever dream of being you sorry piece of shit.”_

The words had clung to Tony’s tongue, fizzing with anticipation, and if he hadn’t been smart enough to see the danger brewing behind his father’s eyes, he might’ve let them fall. But, despite what his father, his teachers and the tabloids might think, Tony Stark knew when to hold his tongue. Howard had taught him that much, at the very least.

“Sorry dad,” he'd replied instead, letting just enough rebellious sarcasm trickle into his tone to elicit a steely glare, but nothing more. It was the small victories, he’d supposed.

“Well. Seventeen’s a big year.” Howard had announced, addressing nobody in particular. “Why don’t you have a drink, son?”

It hadn’t been hard for Tony to miss the way his mother had stiffened at the words, and when her watery eyes had shot upwards towards her husband, a new brand of fear that Tony hadn’t been sure he’d recognised had swum beneath their surface.

It was fear for him.

Tony’s had heard his heartbeat thrumming erratically, sending thrills of fear through his body as his father’s words bustled carelessly around his brain. Memories had rushed with brutal disregard to the forefront of his mind, their battle cries deafening amongst the clutter. He saw his father stumbling to the dinner table, saw him towering above his mother, saw his hand as he brought it down to Tony’s face…

It wasn’t the first time Tony had been offered alcohol, and each time before his silver tongue had folded gracefully over an excuse, a reason to cage the monster he knew lived inside him - the dark and brutal horror of his father’s alcoholism that Tony had promised himself long ago he would keep locked tightly away. If there was one thing that he was absolutely, painfully, unwaveringly sure of, it was that he’d never be the man Howard Stark was when the cameras weren’t rolling.

The weight of the glass was settling into his hand before Tony had been fully able to pull himself from his memories, and he’d had to stop himself from curling his lip at the sight of the glimmering liquor. How could something so poisonous, something capable of such bitter destruction, shine so brightly when the light hit it? It glimmered against the crystal tumbler, and Tony had been distantly reminded of the golden brown eyes of a girl he’d once kissed. It had been a stupid thing to remember, really, given his situation, but he clung to the memory all the same. Sincere, innocent… Happy…

“Well? Come on, it’s your birthday!” Howard crowed playfully, his eyes glinting as though he were addressing one of his old war buddies, rather than a son he barely spoke to. Something warm had blinked awake in Tony’s chest at that, a deeply buried sense of validation. The glass in his hand twitched slightly, inching toward his lips.

“Howard-“ Tony heard his mother whisper, but he paid no mind. His dad had been looking at him… Really looking at him… And there’d been a shine in his once dull eyes…

The liquor had burned on the way down, tearing every cry from his throat before it could reach his lips. But Howard had smiled as he drank, and Tony felt the poison as clearly as he saw it in his father’s eyes. The pain didn’t subside - the burning only grew as the remnants of the whisky seemed to cling solemnly to his mouth, scorching and stinging as the younger boy gagged. A laugh, softer than any sound Tony had ever heard his father produce, floated into the air between them. He’d raised his head, only to be met with eyes full of a rich, genuine pride. Tony’s heart had fluttered. He took another sip.

The end came with fire - but Tony never saw it. The fire burned within him, blistering his chest and leaving scorch marks on his throat as he drank. He had downed his first glass, and then another, and he’d quickly stopped noticing the way his mother’s eyes had sunk more and more as he'd sunk more liquor, shrinking into herself as she watched her son fall easily into the grip of the demon that had stolen her husband away from her. He should’ve stopped. Tony had known that. He’d known as the world started to turn sepia-toned, and every word he managed to force up his fire-damaged throat came out sideways. But it had been too late - his heart and the ribs around it had turned to ash, leaving him wounded and crippled against the whims of his father, who had still managed to hold the glass without his hands shaking as he’d guided it towards Tony’s soot-flecked mouth.

“ _No_ ,” something in him had whimpered, and his lips had followed suit, forming the words before Tony could run them through his mind fast enough to process them.

Howard’s hand had stopped dead, glass still raised in the air, whisky splashing from the force of his jolt.

“…No?” The older man had repeated quietly, and even Tony’s skewed perception had heard the danger like a screaming alarm.

“M'- M’done, dad. C’mon… Please… M’done…” Tony’s arms had felt suspended by ropes as he’d raised them, slapping weakly and pointlessly at the air as his father had drawn closer.

“N’more…”

Howard’s laugh was darker that time, like gravel had lodged itself in his throat.

“Drink up, Tony.”

Tony’s next plea was drowned before it reached the top - tumbling back down its calloused path as the burning returned once more.

Distantly, he’d heard his mother cry out, and watched in slow motion as his father had whirled around, the tsunami of rage that had been teetering on the edge since Tony sat down finally crashing to the shore. Howard ripped his gaze off his son and fixed it, instead, on his wife. By the time Tony had realised what was happening, it was too late. His mother’s scream had felt like a bullet through his too-heavy skull, and the pain had brought him, stumbling, to his feet, desperate to reach her… To save her from him… Only to feel the legs that he'd relied on all his life buckle mutinously against his weight, sending him crashing into the rug while his mother cried his name...

He’d woken up the next morning with the weight of the world pressing down against his forehead and the echoes of his mother’s cries pounding in his ears. Every light had been too bright, and the burn against his pupils had reminded him of the scars that the whiskey left in his chest. And, as he’d blinked himself back into whatever reality he could get a grasp on, one small, glaring detail became painfully acute. That goddamned black box… Those fucking silver cufflinks… Mementos of the worst night of his life, his to keep forever...

Tony’s shoulders were significantly more sunken by the time he dragged himself out of the memory, shivering slightly as the cold air hit him at full force once more. He’d let his eyes trail away from the outdated calendar, bringing them towards their final resting spot. Two neatly packed bags. His mind had drifted one more time, back to the night he’d turned 17… He’d made a promise to his father then, not out loud, not anywhere except in the deepest, most sincere corner of his brain. He said he’d get out. And that was what he did.

Years later, in a car parked two hours out of New York City, an older, more weathered Tony looked out at the storm-soaked sky, watching the rain distort the horizon line outside his windshield. Next to him, he heard Peter take a breath, as if readying all the words that Tony had never had the courage to speak. He’d got out, that icy winter evening, after the snow started blanketing the trees… Late, but better than never. But, as he gazed down at the kid, coiled tightly against the car seat, deft fingers tugging at a loose strand on his jeans, Tony Stark made another promise. Peter would get out. Not by Christmas, not when the sky started turning white and the leaves on trees were a distant memory. Not in a months time. Not in a weeks time.

Peter would get out. Today. Even if Tony had to rip him away himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So that's it. I hope you guys see what I mean when I say this one was a bit of an awkward one to work in to the story. In my opinion it was (obviously) too long to just slot into the middle of a chapter with other plot-heavy things like Peter's confession to Tony and Tony's reaction, but it was honestly some of my favourite writing I've done for a while, and I just couldn't bring myself to delete it or shorten it so... Small chapter it is. 
> 
> (Also, I really hope it wasn't too messy and confusing??? I tried to make it as clear as possible, but considering that this kinda spiralled into a flashback within a flashback within a flashback it could have been super jumbly???? I HOPE not... Either way... Every English teacher I've ever had probably had a collective heart attack as I wrote this)
> 
> That being said, I know you're probably frustrated it isn't the conversation you've all been waiting for, but I really really really hope you guys still enjoyed it!!!! I thought it would be good to give Tony some more Emotional Weight (as if he doesn't have enough of that) before moving into the REAL angsty shit in the next few chapters. I hope you all agree x.
> 
> Like I said in my beginning notes, I'm super overwhelmed with emotion at the moment over this fic and all the support its received. Every time someone comments it's like I've got this newfound passion for writing so I want to thank you AGAIN if you've ever commented on this fic... Thank you for making me feel powerful :) 
> 
> As always, PLEASE leave some feedback if you enjoyed it, or head on over to my tumblr (uxorcide.tumblr.com) if you want to yell at me for making you wait EVEN LONGER for Dad Tony to kick Sam's ass xx 
> 
> Until the next time (soon I promise !!!! I'm getting better !!!)

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it!! This chapter gave me so much grief because of all... The... Damn... Exposition... But I finally got it out!! Let me know what you think, and where you're hoping the story's gonna go! I'm hoping to have a new chapter up asap, because I'm on break right now, so your comments will help pressure me to write... I thrive off praise and criticism xxx
> 
> ALSO I promise there'll be more Tony and Peter interaction in later chapters, it kinda got overshadowed by all the story introduction I was trying to do in this chapter, but I promise their relationship is gonna be the main focus of this story! (The only thing better than Dad!Tony is Protective Dad!Tony)
> 
> (If you have any questions you'd like me to answer, you can hit me up on tumblr !! uxorcide.tumblr.com and I'll be happy to respond to anything)


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